Morass: Interlude
by Ravenschild
Summary: After the events in Morass, it is now time for John to meet Mummy! Nothing, not Afghanistan, not medicine nor Sherlock Holmes could make him ready for this  Sequal to Morass
1. Chapter 1

_**Morass: Interlude - sequal to Morass (might help to read it first) Establishing relationship.**_

"I thought you said we should wait?" Sherlock wrapped his long frame around John, his legs hooked around his waist to end up in the other man's lap.

"Yes, well." John ducked his head and rubbed his hand through his short hair. "I just thought if we didn't, you would over think it and it would never happen." Sherlock's chuckle sent shivers through John as he pulled the long feet up to inspect the last of the damage.

"It occurs to me, that we have discussed, intimately and at length my sexual proclivities." Sherlock's voice was deep and seductive as he nuzzled the back of John's neck, arms possessively wrapped around the shorter frame and the doctor shivered.

"I would think the worlds only consulting detective could have worked out by now that I'm a connoisseur."

"Mmmm," Sherlock's hands ran across the broad shoulders, his long thumbs swept up into the back of John's short hair and rubbed at the base of the skull. He had learnt from the space of last night to this morning, John made the most delicious sounds when he did that. He was rewarded with a breathy moan and a slight shiver.

"You're the deductive genius, so deduct." John moaned into the kiss as he rested against the strong chest of his lover.

"You were married and dated Sarah, and yet you managed to screw me into oblivion so you're obviously Bi."

"Oblivion?" John chuckled and then sobered. "Loved, I prefer the term loved. Screw is what you do to a one night stand."

Sherlock's hands stopped their possessive exploration and held his man tighter. "Thank you, but you are distracting me."

"You over think everything Sherlock, and in most cases I'm happy you are as brilliant as you are, but this does not need to be dissected." John turned his head over his shoulder and pressed a kiss to the full lips, his stubble scratched along Sherlock's jaw as he arched into the sensation, eyes heavy lidded and his mouth parted in on a silent moan. John chuckled again and turned in the bed as he wrapped his legs over Sherlock's, virtually sitting in his lap as his hands played across the defined pectorals of his sensual lover.

"In the past I have had many lovers, some women as you know, but also some men. Now this should not surprise you." John continued the tender assault as his hands calmed the furious heart beat underneath them. "For me it is not a question of sex, or even sexuality which I think is highly over rated, and totally abused." John kissed the full lips again and drew Sherlock into a full body embrace as he laid him back on the bed and stroked his fingers against the satin skin. "It's about the person. A look, a touch, a smile, something special about the person has to draw me." He ran the pad of his thumb over Sherlock's mouth. "I love you, for you. Not because you're a man, or because you're brilliant, or because you're fucking gorgeous." Sherlock blushed as his eyes narrowed. "And don't look at me like that because you are." Sherlock moaned wantonly as John kept the touches light and gentle. Too sated to really become aroused again, these touches inflamed other parts in the young detective, his heart and his soul. He felt loved and it was curious, the tiny butterfly hiccups in his stomach and the total peace and quiet he felt in his head. "I love you, because you are you." John kissed him again and rolled out of the bed he turned and saw the too bright eyes as Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and pulled the bedding up around his waist.

"Breakfast?" He asked hopefully.

"Starving." John answered.

Sherlock smirked and admired the view as John pulled his jeans on and a T shirt he recognised was one of his own.

~~~)))(((~~~

"Mummy makes her eggs different." Sherlock watched as John whisked the warmed milk and butter into the eggs before he put them back in the pan.

"So does mine."

"You still see her?"

"Who Mum? Yeah, not recently, I should do. Mind you she may have a heart attack when I take you home."

"Why?" Sherlock whose very nature bordered on psychotic movement was still in the quaint kitchen and John stopped for a second.

"Sherlock," he said with as much consideration he could muster without laughing, "she won't disapprove of you, or of me. Mum knows me too well."

"That's not it." Sherlock buttered the toast as he sat at the table with John.

"No?" puzzled John began to eat as he watched his lover.

"Why John? Why will she have a heart attack?"

"Because you idiot your too damned beautiful for your own good." John kissed him gently just as Mycroft entered.

"Finally, a happy announcement! Sorry I seem to constantly be interrupting."

Sherlock began to eat; his foot perched in John's lap as he flexed his long toes. "So Mycroft has sent the cleaners to Baker Street and apparently redecorated."

John frowned. "Redecorated? Since yesterday?"

"I have not. I simply improved your living space. Beside," Mycroft said with sinister delight, "you should know that redecorating is Mummy's thing."

John paled. "I am so fucking screwed."

Both the Holmes brothers looked on the stricken features, back to each other and then laughed.

"You know, I think I preferred it when you two were at each other's throats." John mumbled.

"Why?" Mycroft had to ask as he helped himself to breakfast.

"Because brother mine, when we are annoying each other we are leaving John alone."

~~~)))(((~~~

"Excellent!" even before the cry went up, John knew that the text had come from Lestrade; he also knew that it was a case, and Sherlock had been locked recently in a morass of ennui as he tried to come to terms with his emotions. Which, in Johns, professional opinion he wasn't really at terms with, but like most things when it got too far removed from his analytical and logical self, Sherlock guessed.

"Lestrade?"

"Double homicide, prominent banker and his wife." Sherlock rubbed his hands together and John chuckled.

"What?"

"Your mind rebels at stagnation, you need a problem to solve." John tugged him forward and kissed him gently.

"I can wait until after you've had the interview." Sherlock sat back on the edge of the bed as he wrapped a soft blue scarf around his long neck.

"Would it be obvious if I asked how you knew about the interview?"

"Bored John, so I pay a little more attention to things around me."

"You mean me."

"Yes, you're wearing your suit and regimental tie," long fingers waved at his attire. "You have your leather document folder which I know contains your CV, and you got a call from Mike this morning, it's not a big leap."

"No, your quite right of course, it's at Barts, part teaching, part ER. They want someone to teach triage in and out of the field. Mike called me and now you know as much as I do."

"Will the hours be regular?"

"Probably rostered, unless of course there is an emergency."

"Excellent. Most of my cases involve murders, so time is not of the essence. Some of the others may be problematic."

"No, wait, what? You'd wait for me to get off work so I can come with you?"

Sherlock looked down and frowned. "Not good?"

John reached up and kissed the downturned features. "You just surprise me at times. I'll meet you at Scotland Yard when I'm done, I could be a few minutes, I could be a few hours, depends on how the selection criteria is set."

"Ok." Uncertainty in the voice.

"Sherlock, Lestrade will look after you." He nuzzled the lips again.

"You look good." Sherlock breathed in the scent of aftershave.

"Well, if you need an incentive you can unwrap me when we get back."

Sherlock grinned.

~~~)))(((~~~

Sally Donovan winced as she came in contact with the chair, the bruise to her lower back was substantial and the hiss did not go unnoticed by her DI.

"My office now." Lestrade ordered as he loosened his tie. He hated press conferences, and this morning's had been particularly brutal. Nevertheless it was done now, nothing more to do than wait for word from the Super.

"Sir." She swayed from side to side, trying to unhitch the muscles as they locked in protest.

"You going to tell me what happened or do I need to cite regulations?"

"I slipped." Sally looked away.

"No you didn't."

"Actually I did."

"I see. Was Anderson involved with this slip of yours?"

Sally flushed. "No."

"New man then?"

"No."

"You realise I can order an investigation without your consent?"

"Yes sir."

Lestrade sighed heavily and clasped his hands in front of him as he looked at the Sergeant. "You're a big girl Sally, usually you can take care of yourself, however I will be watching."

"Thank you Sir."

"Alright, what have you got on the banker?"

"Thomas Wainwright, Investment banker worked on the trading floor of Shad Sanderson, married for six years, no kids, no debts. Well liked in the social circle."

"Brilliant." Lestrade grouched and looked up to see Holmes striding confidently towards his office.

Sally was the first to notice and despite her obvious discomfit, there was not denying the tenderness in his eyes. The superficial aloofness was there, the stride purposeful and arrogant and people fell back from him as if he was some kind of demi-God but there was a tiny change and Donovan and Lestrade shared a conspiratorial smile.

"Sally." Sherlock stopped at the door as he pulled off his gloves and cocked his head to one side. "Get rid of him." He said softly as he pushed his hands into his pockets.

"Sorry what?" Sally shook her head as Lestrade narrowed his eyes.

"If he hits you once, he'll hit you again. He's not worth it Sally, get rid of him while you can."

"Donovan?" Lestrade nodded Sherlock into the room and he sat on one of the rattan chairs.

"Bloody hell." Sally hissed. "Damn and sod and fuck." She said clearly as she studied her feet."Ok, it's only new and things got out of hand and he got a bit too handy, so yes, I got a bruise from my soon to be ex boyfriend. Happy now?"

"No." Sherlock said softly. "It should never have happened." He fixed her with his gimlet stare and she nodded.

"Go on Sally, sort your things out, and take Dimmock if you want."

"Now you had something for me?" Sherlock pressed.

"Bodies have already been moved, but I've got a significant number of crime scene photos along with lab and toxicology."

"When?"

"Yesterday morning. Can still take you over the crime scene if you want, Anderson should be finished over there."

"Oh goody." Sherlock sneered and stood impatiently by the door. "Well?" He demanded when Lestrade hadn't moved.

Shaken from his reverie Lestrade grabbed his jacket and keys.

~~~)))(((~~~

John frowned when he was lead into the interview room, his CV tucked under his arm. It was odd; in fact it was beyond odd. There should have been an application form, there should have been other applicants, and instead he was ushered in as if_ he was doing them a favour._

Mike Stamford grinned as he introduced John to the board and things went down the rabbit hole from there.

Within three hours he was now contemplating a very lucrative job offer, high placed position and the opportunity, health and hand tremors notwithstanding, to continue his chosen career of general surgeon.

John felt his head swim with the possibilities, yet at the same time, the tiny doubt he may not have gotten here on his own merit annoyed him. Somehow, he blamed Mycroft.

"You're wrong." Mike Stamford said as he fell into step with him.

"Sorry, what?" John lounged against a wall and watched the staff move with purpose around him.

"I didn't have to sell them too hard John, your reputation precedes you." Mike stuffed a mint into his mouth and smiled apologetically.

"I'm, ah, grateful that they know me at all, but then you did put in a word didn't you?" John folded his arms across his chest.

"Look, we need to teach triage, especially now with all the fear of terrorist attacks, we need to get the EMS and A&E back to where it should be, and frankly when I gave them your name and told them to look you up they were delighted."

"Psychosomatic limp and hand tremors notwithstanding, and let's not forget the PTSD."

"The limp will not stop you working, the hand tremor might hold you back as a surgeon, but your license is still valid and you are still considered a surgeon. And you are fit and not likely, and according to your therapist nor have you ever had flashbacks during waking hours, so as long as you're not asleep whilst at work, I don't see you have a problem."

"When did you get to be so insightful?" John's smile was crooked and just a little bit bitter.

"When you got to be so bloody pig headed and stupid." Mike popped another mint.

"How's the diet?"

"Don't ask."

"Don't tell." John smirked.

"How is Sherlock?"

"Yeah he's good, getting better all the time." John smirked and attempted to cover his gaff with a cough, unfortunately Mike knew him well enough to read between the lines.

"Bloody hell! You didn't?" Mike hooted.

"Erm."

"You did! You and Sherlock!"

"Mike, keep your voice down."

"Oh don't worry, the Director had his civil ceremony last week, he won't care. I just didn't know you batted for the other team."

"Um," John flushed gently. "Surprise?" he said weakly.

Mike Stamford slapped him on the shoulder and laughed again. "Well leaves more girls for me. Besides after Emma your due your share of happiness mate."

"Thanks."

Watson strolled out of the hospital, his mind was made up, well pending the conversation with Sherlock, but it was a good offer. Hell it was a great offer and it gave him enough free time to commit to Sherlock's erratic schedule. He knew though at some point it would grow, he couldn't remain part time for very long, there was always the chance he'd end up working in A&E. But that was something once he had a passion for.

He made his way out to the street and hailed a cab for Scotland Yard and rolled his shoulders. He didn't realise the impact of his private life on his public one and he shuddered for a moment, it shouldn't bother him, nor should it bother anyone else, but people would always be people. He sent a text.

_Where are you? JW_

Almost immediately he got the response.

_At crime scene, going back to SY, did you get the job? SH_

John grinned, bloody hell.

_If I want it, will discuss with you later JWx_

Watson giggled to himself, when did he become a teenage girl?

~~~)))(((~~~

She was of course beautiful, often she had been told as much but more often than not it was an attempt to keep her firmly in her place. She was privileged, elite, educated and _why did she need to be a physicist again_? Her father had asked many times with varying degrees of frustration.

Her marriage had been the social event of the year on two continents and from that union two amazing sons. Like night and day, but with the same heart, the same fire and passion that other's failed to understand. One who burned with a cold fire, calm to the point of reticence and then her baby, his fire was hot, his passion quicksilver as was his nature, he could transform within a second, and no one knew quite what to do with him or his frightening intellect.

She laughed, there really was nothing to do except love him. Now, according to Mycroft , after so many years of pain and doubt that her baby would belong, would be cherished for the unique man he was, it seemed her prayers had been answered, in the shape of an ex army surgeon.

She tapped the screen on her iPad again and read what she could of Dr John Watson, his medical background, his military service, his blog and finally Mycroft had thought to send a photo of the man himself. The picture had been taken without the participants knowledge, John's head was bent low as Sherlock looked up at him, and she was smitten.

The love between the two was obvious, their body language put them in syncopation, but then she saw the little battle lines on the good doctors face and realised in some ways Sherlock had met his match, both figuratively and emotionally.

Amelie had never travelled or traded on her husband's title, instead she went her own way in life, which had made her respected, successful and rich, but all those things were by products of her ability and had nothing to do with her heart or her greatest achievement. She was a mother before everything else; she traced her fingers across the photo of her baby and she smiled gently. This, these children were her passion. She had been breath to Sherlock's fire as a child, and he youth to her heart when she felt old. Mycroft had always been the solid one, the sensible one and she smiled to herself as she packed the last of her winter clothes into the Hermes bag and snapped it shut. Her oldest son has always been a bit of a hand full and full of mischief. She was relieved that now, the past seemed to be behind them and they now relied and counted on each other, that the bitterness had found an end.

Another reason, she ventured, she would have to be grateful to John Watson. But for all his worth, all his love and all his ability, she was still Mummy and he would not get off that easily. Now her laugh was wicked, she was, if nothing else a Holmes and had a certain reputation to live up to.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock picked at the lint on his jacket and scowled.

"You're quiet." Lestrade prompted from the seat next to him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he turned his head to look at the DI as he tooled the car easily around the city streets.

"Is there something in particular you wanted to ask?" Sherlock intoned.

"No, it's called making conversation. You've heard of it I imagine?"

"I see no need for it." Sherlock went back to inspecting the lint.

"Ok, how did you know about Sally's boyfriend?"

"Dark shadows on her wrists from being held down, she pulled back when I invaded her personal space, slight elevation in her pulse rate, there were several small blood spots on the left side of her hairline which indicated her hair had been pulled forcefully. Faint odour of Hugo Boss aftershave, eyes slightly red rimmed from crying. Sally doesn't scare easily, and yet she was wary of a male presence, one that she knows, and despite our acerbic relationship she still found cause to be afraid. So deduction she had been compromised possibly abused recently by a male, since the physical evidence indicates a new relationship and I know she has ceased her liaison with Anderson, it was simple really. Do you really need me to talk that much that you want me to go through the twenty seven steps to prove it, or would you much rather accept that I do know what I'm doing."

"Sherlock, sometimes you can be so damned irritating."

The Detective smiled at this. "Only sometimes?"

"Yes, most times actually." Lestrade laughed. "He loves you you know."

Sherlock almost felt the whiplash as the subject changed so rapidly. "Yes."

"But?" Lestrade slowed the car down.

"He's worried about meeting my mother. He shouldn't be should he?" Sherlock frowned, the protocols of relationships still confused to him.

"Firstly yes, it's a big deal to meet the significant other's parents, or siblings. Secondly, get a grip Sherlock, this is your Mum, I've met her and she has the ability to unnerve me and I'm not sleeping with you."

"Is it obvious?"

"You kissed him in the squad room Sherlock, kinda gave it away don't you think?"

Sherlock wiped his hand across his face. "_Merde_."

"Are you swearing? 'Cause my French is terrible."

"Probably. The banker and his wife, did you see?"

"Not what you're referring to." Lestrade grimaced.

"The house was full of items that they could not or should not be able to afford, and yet there is no hint of impropriety." Sherlock dug out his phone, put it on loud speaker and dialled.

"Sebastian, its Sherlock."

"Twice in one year! Good to hear from you again old man." Sebastian's voice was cordial but strained. They had never been friends.

"Oh, I doubt that Sebastian, but I do need to talk to you about Wainwright."

The pause and quick drawn in breath gave away his anxiety. "Sure, I'll have my secretary make an appointment."

"No not really a good idea, you can meet us as Scotland Yard in an hour."

"Us? Now see here Sherlock, you can't go ordering me around."

Lestrade frowned.

"Really? I don't see why not, I am with Detective Inspector Lestrade now, would you like him to make it formal or informal?" Sherlock's voice was icy.

"Formal." Sebastian bit out.

"Excellent." Sherlock smiled.

"I'll have the warrant executed and we will arrange to have you picked up at your office." Lestrade's eyes gleamed with sinister delight, he didn't like the slimy man on the phone, and moreover he didn't like the condescending way he spoke to Sherlock.

"No, no you're serious?"

"Yes I am." Lestrade barked.

"Alright, give me an hour I'll meet you at the Yard."

"Excellent, always a pleasure Seb." Sherlock ended the call.

"Want to tell me who that was?"

"Sebastian Wilkes, Thomas Wainwrights boss." Sherlock checked his phone for messages and frowned when he saw no new ones from John.

"Bloody hell do I always have to pull teeth to get information out of you?" Lestrade growled.

"No, sorry. Am I? Probably not." Sherlock smiled. "Sebastian and I went to University together."

"Not well liked then?"

"No, I was never liked." Sherlock grunted and Lestrade pulled the car over.

"I was referring to this Wilkes character."

"Oh."

"Sherlock, for all your intellect, it is obvious you don't know how people react in emotional situations when they are personal to you. So, if you get lost, don't know what to do or just generally need some help, you know you can ask me." Lestrade said gently.

"Um, thank you." Sherlock bit his lip and absently rubbed his stomach.

"Have you eaten?" Lestrade opened the glove compartment of the car and pulled out a power bar. "Sorry it's warm."

"Did John give you these?" he eyed the dark wrapper suspiciously.

"Yes. Have you got your antibiotics?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but dutifully dug into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the thin strip. He popped one and opened the power bar and took a bite.

"Satisfied?"

Lestrade bit back on the chuckle and pulled the car away from the kerb. "Yes."

With all the alacrity of a recalcitrant child he wrapped the bar up and made to stuff it into his pocket. Lestrade trapped his hand and shook his head.

"If not all of it then at least half."

"Is this mother henning likely to continue?" Sherlock snarked.

"Possibly, so just deal with it."

"Fine."

~~~)))(((~~~

Anderson bagged all the contraband found in the Wilkes flat and tagged it. So many beautiful items, any one of which was more than he could afford he thought sourly as his eyes drifted to Sally Donovan.

"Are you alright Sally?" the black eyes complete with steri-tape made him look cross-eyed.

"I'm fine Mike."

"Ahuh, as in fucked up insecure and neurotic?"

"What?" She folded her arms across her chest in a purely defensive measure.

"Technical meaning for Fine." He smiled and reached out to her gently. "We may not be an us any more Sally, but leave me for someone worth the effort yeah?"

She felt a hot tear in the corner of her eye and wiped it away. "I could tell you he didn't mean it."

"And we both know you'd be lying. We've been here too long, in this job, we know, we've heard it all before. Don't, please don't be a statistic."

"Sherlock said I should dump him."

"Yeah well the Freak pisses me off on any given day, but on this occasion he's right."

"Um, thanks Mike, I ah, have to get back to the station. And don't worry, I've already told Sebastian bloody Moran that he can take a hike."

"Good for you." And surprisingly, he meant it, in that cold calculating and insincere heart, Mike Anderson loved her. He just couldn't be faithful, and she deserved so much more.

~~~)))(((~~~

Lestrade trudged into the squad room with Sherlock on his heels like an avenging angel. All dark curls and sinister arrogance. He stood apart and in this element, people fell back from him with a mixture of awe and grudging respect. He pulled of the fine leather gloves and shoved them down in the pocket of his Belstaff coat.

"Ah Sebastian." Sherlock intoned as he walked by the worried banker. "This way." He insolently led the way into Lestrade's office and sat in one of the two chairs, all the better to watch the reactions.

"Now see here Sherlock, just because we went to university together doesn't give you the right to make demands on me, my time is valuable."

"Mr Holmes has not made any demands on you." Lestrade motioned him to a seat. "I have. Now your banker Thomas Wainwright was found dead this morning along with his wife." Feeling in particularly nasty mood, Lestrade opened the folder of crime scene photos and laid the grizzly pictures on the desk top for Wilkes to see.

The banker went as pale as his silk shirt and closed his eyes. "I don't know what I can tell you."

"Really? That's not like you Seb." Sherlock hid the shark behind the facade of friend and could see it worked.

"So far this is unofficial, and it's normal procedure to interview those closest to the deceased." Lestrade added.

"So I don't need to call my attorney."

"Not unless you're guilty of something." Sherlock moved closer.

"Don't be ridiculous! Sherlock you know me, you know I could never do that." He waved at the pictures scattered before him.

"Do we ever truly know anyone?" Sherlock asked rhetorically. "The point here is not if you did it, but what you know about it. And you do know something don't you? Something you need to tell? What are you afraid of Seb?" his voice was a soft crooned baritone and like a snake charmer wooed the beast, so too did Sherlock employ the same almost hypnotic device on his one time friend.

"Yes, alright, but this is off the record." Sebastian began to sweat as he looked between the two men. Lestrade nodded.

"Do you need protection?" Sherlock asked again and Lestrade almost felt sorry for the poor idiot who was about to damn himself along with his murdered colleague.

"I might do. You've been to the flat?"

"Yes."

"Tom and his wife were gamblers."

"Go on." Sherlock steepled his hands together in the familiar prayer position and looked languidly at the cracks in the ceiling, seeming for the entire world disinterested.

"There's a group, private club that caters to the more eclectic tastes of gamblers."

"I'm assuming they don't play Blackjack?"

"I don't know all of it, but they invited me to play. They had won some serious items, Faberge Eggs, money, trips, stocks, gold bullion, expensive electronics, even a Stradivarius and an original Monet."

"The items were stolen?" Lestrade asked as he sucked on the end of his pen, days like this he wanted, no needed a fag.

"No, passed from one to another, but not as far as I know stolen." Sebastian said softly.

"You think that they were killed because they what, couldn't pay their gambling debts?" Lestrade opined.

"Oh, I think it's all a bit more sinister than that isn't it Seb? They gambled their lives, if it were debts then the items in the flat would have been taken in payment, but nothing was touched, so they gambled their lives, but against what?" Sherlock fixed his steely gaze on the man in the chair. Expensive suit and Breightling notwithstanding, Sebastian Wilkes dripped with the sweat of a man who was truly afraid.

"I don't know Sherlock; it was all a bit of a laugh to begin with, but then this." Sebastian held his hands wide.

"Is not the first is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Marcus Cavendish." Wilkes nodded. "He died a week or so ago, everyone said it was a car accident."

Lestrade opened his computer and ordered the files to be bought to his office.

"The contact, was it made directly to you or via Wainwright?"

"I was to be sponsored in next week."

"So do you have a contact?"

Sebastian looked like he was about to vomit. "Yes." He said softly.

"Excellent!" Sherlock clapped his hands together and grinned manically. "I suggest, _old friend_, that you give as much detail as you can to DI Lestrade here, if you expect to survive this."

Lestrade choked down the smile as he saw the snotty little man blanche and pointed to a waste bucket, at the same time John Watson entered the squad room talking animatedly to Sally Donovan. She held in her hands a violin wrapped in a plastic bag very similar to the one Sherlock owned.

"Donovan!" Lestrade called as she came directly into his room. "Please take Mr Wilkes here to interview room two and get a statement from him, oh and get him something to drink will you."

Watson's eyes went wide as he reached an arm around Sherlock's waist and smiled at the completely confused expression on the banker.

"Sebastian."

"Oh yes, Sherlock's colleague."

"Friend, partner, etc." Watson smirked as Wilkes eyes narrowed and Sherlock straightened his spine, with what looked to Lestrade like pride.

Sally handed the violin to Sherlock. "Found this at the Wainwright house, it's been dusted for prints."

"Yes." His voice soft now as he looked at the instrument with something akin to avarice, long fingers stroked through the plastic bag. "It's a Strada, similar to mine, a few years later, but original nevertheless, worth around mmmm, one to two million pounds."

John's shoulders slumped, he knew the violin at home was precious, Sherlock lavished great care and attention to it but to know it's true worth shocked the surgeon.

The detective for his part had snapped on latex gloves and turned the instrument over in his hands and peered at the back. "Ah, from the Van Holt collection, sold at auction through Christie's in October 2009, from memory. The provenance will be available; you can probably track down other members of the club. You will find all the items will be traceable through one if not all of the auction houses."

"It's already been dusted for prints." John pointed out.

"Anything useful?" Lestrade asked as he watched Donovan herd Wilkes out of the room.

"Database is still checking we have several full and at least four more partials." Anderson sneered. "Oh don't pretend you know how to play it!" he snapped at the lanky detective.

Sherlock looked to Lestrade for permission, pulled off the gloves then took up bow and violin with a flourish, checked it was tuned properly and drew the bow across the strings.

The tone resonated throughout the squad room as Sherlock swayed to the music, keen eyes bored into Anderson as his mastery of the instrument could never be doubted. Most of the squad room stilled as it heard the gentle tones, several more stopped to stare as the cold and calculating self proclaimed sociopath worked his magic upon the instrument, Nessun Dorma had never sounded more beautiful, more haunting or more tragic in those few moments and when he stopped he simply put the violin back into the evidence bag, along with the bow and turned on his heel past Anderson, the shadow of a smile on his lips.

The forensic man shook his head and muttered darkly.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful support, Granny you can nit pick me anytime sweetness! It's been hectic here, we've had it all folks, floods, doom, ack! The bunny is wet but thankfully not drowned. Reviews are loved! Onwards and yes well Mummy arrives in the next part...:)**_

"What do you know of depression?" Sherlock's deep baritone was softened into melody as he watched the people walk hand in hand in the park.

"Enough to last a lifetime, why?" John nodded.

"Past experience or medical?"

"Both." John turned and rested against the low rail as Sherlock leant forward on his elbows and watched the ducks swim beneath the little bridge.

"Then you understand addiction." Sherlock surmised as he clapped his hands together against the chill.

"Is this case or personal?" John put his hand on Sherlock's elbow and turned to face him.

"Both." Sherlock smiled, a little lopsided self depreciating grin that set Johns heart to ache. "Shall we sit?"

"Did you eat?"

"Half a power bar with my antibiotics. Really John I can manage." Sherlock huffed.

"I know, I know, forgive me if I worry about you, sometimes you get so caught up in your head you forget what your transport needs."

The park was busy, the momentary break in the weather had the sun out and despite the chill in the air, the day was bright and clear and the locals took the opportunity to remember what summer was like, before the long winter ahead.

"Sometimes I forget." Sherlock admitted. "Sometimes I want to forget, I was raised to play safe, not to take risks and by the time I was six I was over it."

"That makes sense, but then you were hampered by those in your environment. Your peers certainly don't understand you, if Sebastian is anything to go by."

"Believe it or not he was the most passive of the lot. His derision and scorn were generally masked thinly by a veil of congeniality that made him appear less aggressive."

"He's a corporate banker." John coughed.

"This makes him viscous, brutal and quick."

"And a prime candidate for the gambling club."

"Yes. However, there are a couple of anomalies I would appreciate if you could interpret for me."

"Oh no not again." John frowned.

"No, no honestly John! Am I ever going to live that down? I don't want to patronize you; I need you to read over the autopsy reports for me, there is something not quite right there."

"Of course." John grinned. "And no in answer to your other question probably not."

"Brilliant, I get a lover who decides to have a long memory." Sherlock smiled. "Chips?"

John stumbled his face incredulous as he took a step back and turned Sherlock to look at him.

"What?"

"Chips? You know fried potatoes usually with liberal amounts of vinegar and salt." Sherlock smirked.

"Yes, yes I know what a chip is." John smiled. "It's just you asking for food surprised me."

"Oh really? I thought it was because I referred to you as my lover." Sherlock's grin grew again.

"That too. But chips would be good. There's a chippy across the road and we can eat in the park yes?"

"Excellent I'll get the tea." Sherlock headed off towards the coffee van and John watched him go.

John picked at his chips and watched in amusement as Sherlock devoured his half and continued on, it was rare to see the man eat, much less with enthusiasm.

"So the job?" Sherlock finally prodded and John rolled his shoulders.

"Mike Stamford put me forward as you know, it's a good job Sherlock, it's excellent, in fact probably too good."

"You suspect Mycroft?"

"Yes."

"Tell me are the specifications of the job beyond your capacity?"

"No, of course not, no. Even if Mycroft had made it to be an order, without the skill set or necessary degrees the hospital wouldn't have offered. The law suits would be huge."

Sherlock smirked.

"Oh alright." John conceded with a grin.

"So you will take it?"

"Depends?"

"On?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Idiot. Of course you. This is an 'us' now not just a me, so you do get some input."

"Some?"

"Again with monosyllabic questions?"

Sherlock tipped his head back and laughed. "So Lestrade tells me it's ok for you to be worried about meeting Mummy."

"I've spoken to her on the phone and no doubt I've been vetted by Mycroft to ensure my suitability." John rolled his eyes.

"I've had relationships before John. Mummy never came home to meet anyone, ever, and she was the only one who would."

"Mycroft?"

"No he knew them; mostly he ignored them or made banal comments about their unsuitability to be with me."

"See knew you were too good for me."

"Actually they were generally out of my league."

"Nope, won't agree to that, anyone would be lucky, I am very very lucky to have you."

Sherlock blushed and looked down his voice hesitant and shy. "Thank you."

"Now tell me what you want."

"From?"

"Stop stalling Sherlock, I know you remember?"

"I want you to not be embarrassed of me."

John wiped the salt and vinegar off his hands onto the chip paper before he reached over to cup the smooth jaw of his lover and leant in for a gentle chaste kiss. "Never, because of you maybe, but never _**of**_ you. Tell me."

"When I was with her, they touched me all the time, their hands were cruel and she whispered poison into my head. She said you would never love me, that I could never let you love me."

"Was she wrong?" John kissed him gently on the cheek before pulling back.

"Yes." Sherlock's eyes flitted closed. "Oh God yes she was wrong."

"I love you." John said softly. "Now how about you help me learn Mummy?"

"You've spoken to her."

"Yes. I imagine she is very much like a female version of you, but more open."

"Good, you're managed to develop your own deductive ability. And?"

"I'd say she is independently wealthy and independent. She probably won't ever re-marry, that she was with the love of her life and when your father passed, she buried herself in work."

"Spot on!" Sherlock answered with glee.

"She is overprotective of you with just cause, and the reason she didn't come home to meet your lovers before was because she didn't think you meant them to be serious. They were more likely something to annoy your brother with."

Sherlock coloured at the words. "Yes on a couple of occasions I deliberately sabotaged Mycroft with his girlfriends."

"As if they could resist you. Mycroft has the arrogance, but very little sex appeal; you on the other hand can be the epitome of sex."

"Really?" Sherlock blushed again and John laughed. "You keep telling me I'm beautiful but I don't see it."

"What do you see?"

"Hmm, aesthetically I suspect I must be appealing on some level but I'm too tall and too spindly to be beautiful and my face is too angular, too odd."

"Lucky I like spindly angular and odd."

"Yeah, lucky me. Maybe we should see a psychiatrist."

"No I think you're stuck with me."

"Not about us John, or even about me, no about the case. What makes a well off couple who for all intents and purposes successful and happy gamble their own lives?"

"Ok, whiplash you change the conversation so fast. Tell me what you've got."

"The banker worked for Sebastian at Shad Sanderson, well liked etc, his flat was expensive, fitted out with state of the art surveillance, which helpfully showed nothing. All his treasures including the Strada were left untouched, the flat was not tossed, and there appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the two dead bodies."

"Murder suicide?"

"Thought had occurred, but the level of mutilation was severe and there is no way a man or woman could do that damage to themselves. So no, there was someone else there. They had been out, probably all night judging by their clothing, her makeup was still intact, what we could see of it, and her handbag was on the table. Nothing else, no domestic, no note, no final drinks, nothing, the flat was clean John."

"As in really cleaned or as in the housekeeper had been in."

"Sanitized. Now they have no money worries, nothing in the psyche profile that suggests they are thrill seekers, nor bored."

"People who gamble are addicts, not all of course, many of us can have a flutter without becoming obsessed by it. So this gambling club?"

"I have a hunch."

"Which is?"

"South Africa."

"Pardon?"

"Johannesburg to be exact. This goes back to the De Beers shipment. Wainwright made a diamond call for the bank just prior to the diamonds flooding the market which would indicate some form of insider trading."

"So the gambling club is linked to the De Beers shipment which is in turn linked to the stocks and the plutonium and, bloody hell, Moriarty."

"And we are back at our favourite psychopath."

"But who? Or more importantly how?"

"My guess is that it's the Professor, not the children. In fact I've had time to look at it. I wager that James was a disappointment when he decided to call me out as it were. They were off the radar until then and I'm sure Daddy wouldn't have been proud."

"Daddy?"

"You remember of course what Jim said at the pool, _**Daddy's had enough now**_. It was a parody, not a threat but a remembered sentence. Jim was brilliant but insane, as was his sister, but that does not preclude that they learnt from somewhere. Contrary to popular belief I do understand sibling rivalry and parental rivalry. Jim had been chastised often, and most likely left to his own devices. But then he called me out."

"So he couldn't hide anymore, you would hunt them down because it is what you do, and in doing so would draw attention to them. Something the elder Moriarty would not be happy about."

"Exactly. If I know about their clandestine little group, which I do, then I have to accept that Jim drew my attention to them because he wanted to stop or inhibit his father's enterprises."

"Because he never had to bring your attention to them?"

"Yes. Now they are cleaning up. I suspect the Amateur Mendicant Society is at the bottom of this."

"Sorry, who?"

"Ah yes prior to my blogger moving in with me I had an interesting case and I ran across the Mendicants. In principle, mendicant orders or followers do not own property, either individually or collectively, and have taken a vow of poverty, in order that all their time and energy could be expended on practicing or preaching their religion or way of life and serving the poor. They are particularly itinerant; however, they beg alms and rely on charity."

"I see. No, actually I don't."

"Really John." Sherlock huffed all self righteous indignation was lost when he continued to munch on the cold chips. "What better way to hide copious quantities of cash and goods than in a group designed to delegate such funds to the individuals within the group? This group could easily pass funds around to each other, gambling included."

"Ah ok, so all the stuff in their flat were things donated or obtained during the course of time, which would mean this has been going on for years. But what is worth gambling your life on?"

"Russian roulette, it's not uncommon, in fact it comes up all the time in literature and in history. I was meaning specific, what made this couple gamble their lives?"

"I don't know, but I will take a look at the autopsy reports when they are done, will Molly send them over for you?"

"I'll get them from Lestrade tomorrow."

"Good."

"Do we intend to move back to Baker Street?"

"Whenever you're ready."

"Now, can I go home now John, with you?" Sherlock laced his fingers with those of the doctor.

John chuckled. "I would suspect Mummy will want to visit."

"Mmm, ok, good point then we stay with Mycroft until Mummy goes home." Sherlock nodded.

"Love you."

"I'm turning it back on John." Sherlock said softly.

"What?"

"The emotions, they are a bit rusty and I've become accustomed to being selfish."

"You know when you're being selfish?" John ran his hand through the riot of curls.

Sherlock's phone chimed and he looked down.

_**Glad to see you are back and ready to rejoin the game. M**_

He turned the screen back to John who swore profusely.

"Given this I would say there is very little doubt about Moriarty's involvement wouldn't you?"

"Sherlock, Moriarty is an opportunist, so it may not be linked. I know you thrive on this but are you ready?"

"I'm always ready for the game John." Sherlock huffed indignantly.

"Actually, I was referring to the relationship."

"Ah, no. But before you get offended, I'm never ready for a relationship, so I don't know. What I do know is that it hurts to be without you, and that was before Arabella. Now the separation anxiety is horrid, even when I know where you are. So I guess it's better to work it through together rather than hurt to be apart." Sherlock deduced.

"I'll accept that. But if you need space you let me know yeah? You don't go closing yourself off again agreed?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded eagerly.

"You know that Arabella kept CCTV footage of your time with her." John said gently.

"I thought as much."

"Did you know you called for me?"

"Often, and loudly if I remember, I assume Mycroft has it?"

"Yes." John fidgeted.

"I don't want to see it." Sherlock said abruptly.

"Neither do I." John looked down at the joined hands.

"Curious, I rather thought you'd seen it."

"No, your brother told me, it's not really something I think I could watch my love."

Sherlock looked up at the sun and blinked slowly.

"Yes well, it seems that Lestrade also got a text."

"How do you know?" John shook his head.

"Because I've never seen him run like that before."

John turned in time to see Lestrade pound across the park complete with a couple of uniforms, just as the two red sniper dots appeared on the packet of discarded chips.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: Thank you to all the wonderful people who have kept the music alive in my heart. Last week we had flood, today it's topping the temp at 31 degrees, which is damn hot! the bunny is sweating and in desperate need of affection *grin* think I'll take it for a swim...Raven**_

The evidence was a tangible thing, Sherlock took in the sniper sights on the chip paper, the two uniforms had bullet proof vests on over the top, Lestrade was sweating and since the man was remarkably fit for his age the detective concluded he must be wearing a similar Kevlar vest.

John launched his body forward across the small space and tackle rolled Sherlock so that he was facing away from the snipers and looking out across the park. His body protested the sudden movement and he forced out a strangled cry.

Furious beyond belief Sherlock continued the momentum of his body and pulled John to him as he sat on the damp grass and surveyed the area. He grabbed the mobile phone and stabbed at the screen.

_**Snipers? Really? Boring! SH **_

And hit send. His head swam as Lestrade pulled him roughly to his feet and between the three police officers raced them across the green as a hail of bullets tore into the ground behind them.

On the periphery of vision he saw agents break into a search pattern around the park, as parents with small children screamed and scrambled for cover.

Once safely ensconced in the back of the van he pulled the scarf from around his neck and grinned at John who equally was grinning like a loon. He threw his phone to Lestrade as he looked at the two maniacs in front of him.

"You thought that Moriarty was out of the picture, but you're wrong." John smiled as the adrenaline wore off.

"So why are you two smiling?" Lestrade looked baffled as he stripped off the Kevlar and it hit the ground with a thump.

"Because I'm right." Sherlock announced smugly.

"Obviously." Lestrade muttered.

"About?" John asked as he leaned closer to Sherlock who wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

"I had a theory that the Mendicants were behind the gaming circle and because of the connections it was associated with Moriarty. The text I received and no doubt you received indicate I am on the right track which means they are trying to distract me by threatening us."

"Ok I think my head imploded." Lestrade grimaced. "Weren't they the bank for those Freaky Friars a couple of years back?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Maybe if you take us back to the Manor we can discuss this more comfortably?" John asked.

"Wait aren't you supposed to be pissed or angry or something?" Lestrade waved his hands in the air between the two men.

"Why?" Sherlock asked slowly.

"Because some nutter is taking pot shots at you?" Lestrade finished lamely.

"Pot shots certainly, but they had no orders to kill or even maim us." Sherlock continued to speak slowly aware of the wild eyed gaze of the DI.

"Geoff, he, they had ample opportunity to kill us, this was a warning nothing more, an attempt to make us feel vulnerable." John reasoned.

"And in doing so proved my hypothesis." Sherlock retrieved his phone just as John's chimed with a text message.

"It's from your brother; he wants to know if we have been killed."

"Mm it's Friday."

"Friday?" Lestrade ran the nonsequitor and came up blank.

"Mycroft never texts if he can call, therefore it's Friday, he's having his acupuncture." Sherlock continued.

"So should I tell him we have both expired, and he's talking to the afterlife?" John smirked.

"You are unbelievable." Lestrade shook his head.

"Afghanistan, remember?" John asked.

"Sherlock remember?" the Detective asked.

"Insane, remember?" Lestrade looked at them both and fell silent.

~~~)))(((~~~

It was one of the things she enjoyed most, being able to surprise her sons. She knew Mycroft would be incensed; she had travelled without protection, without an entourage and she giggled like a girl in her teens. She had more in common with her baby than with his elder brother but still she loved them both equally.

She was ushered into the diplomatic line at Cointrin airport ready to board the jet to Heathrow, as she looked down at her manicure and smiled. The flight time was less than an hour and from there by limousine from the airport to the Manor would take slightly longer depending of course on traffic.

Amelie settled in her first class seat and sipped the gin and tonic delicately as she watched the white puffs of cloud scud by. There was no time to open her laptop, or even listen to music, this was the first time in almost a month she had to herself and she relished every second. Scowling slightly when she remembered her three days off, four now would mean many a late night for the next week, but she loved it, with a passion that was white hot like burning phosphorous.

Ah London, she remembered the smell of Wimbledon in the summer with the strawberries and champagne, the streets that held memories of when she'd taken her boys to the Palace, the Houses of Parliament, to the museum or even just for a random day of shopping and cupcakes. Eventually she remembered the darker days, when she fled with her son to Paris, like a lioness to the charge she ran to protect her baby from the ruthless decrees of her husband and elder child. She felt them circle the boy, ready to draw blood, ready to answer the question of why he was so very different. And they failed to see that very uniqueness is what bound them inextricably together, because if truth were told, the Holmes men were all distinctly odd.

Ah, then to her husband. How she loved him, even in his treachery, in that year apart he came to her in secret the memory of those nights bound together in the fine linen at the Athenee, the scent of the red roses that draped the Juliet balcony wafted in to mix with his scent, and their musk. She had adored him, and even now with society at her feet she felt no compulsion to love another.

Mycroft would never love, he would acquire partners, wives, and maybe even a child, but not from Sophia, that woman was a wasp. And Amelie was glad to know that the marriage would dissolve, not because it would hurt her son, in fact she wasn't sure it could hurt him. Mycroft seemed so aloof, so above the base needs of family, it struck her as odd he should cleave so much to a sibling who had reason to hate him.

And then Sherlock, the shuttered heart that guarded itself, the intellect that no one could live with not even his father who had despaired and finally withdrawn from the child so utterly that when he passed Sherlock had offered support and sympathy to his mothers pain, but felt nothing and drew no tear as they lowered the coffin prematurely into the ground.

Her heart ached, for no matter how people saw him, no matter how Sherlock saw him, he was father, lover, friend and her heart missed him with each solitary beat in her breast. She dashed the tears aside and pulled out a compact to redress her appearance before she arrived home.

The day was crisp and clear, the bells of a nearby church peeled in the late afternoon as the car drew up the long gravel drive and to the front door, and Davis hid his pleasure behind the cool facade of the professional as he hurried the household retinue to collect the bags.

"Ma'am." He bowed to her and she smiled before taking his hand in hers.

"Such formality old friend." She smiled mischievously. "Now come tell me what my babies have been up to."

He offered her his arm and they headed toward her kitchen. Unlike her husband the staff adored her, and whilst she could be every inch the aristocrat mostly she was human and fallible and treated them all well. Household gossip was now only something Mycroft was beginning to learn the value of.

~~~)))(((~~~

In sharp contrast to her normal arrogance and ability Sally Donovan trembled when she met her soon-to-be ex at the small coffee shop near The Yard.

He was a lion of a man, with a full head of hair and broad shoulders, the deep green eyes watched with a predatory glare as she attempted to affect an air of confidence as she came to the small table.

"Sebastian." She sat down gingerly as he rose to push her chair in and ordered for her. Coffee and croissant.

"No." She stiffened her spine, his voice so soft with its South African accent, drifted across her skin like silk fingers and caressed her in ways she was loathe to define. Sherlock was right, so was Mike and her DI and lord knows who else would damn her for her weakness, if she chose to stay and allowed him to become the beast she had caught a glimpse of last night.

"No what Sally?"

"As fun as my time with you has been." She closed her eyes for a second and steeled her resolve. "I am ending our association, now." There she'd said it and she watched the handsome features twist for a moment before he regained his equilibrium.

"I am sorry Sally." He said softly as he fingered the heavy ring on his left hand, the bruise of which she could feel in her spine.

"No that's the problem Sebastian, I don't think you are. And I will not stay to be abused by any man, not even you."

"How is it abuse when it's consensual?" he asked again as he leaned forward all of his attention solely focused on the lovely dark skin.

"When I begged you to stop, you didn't." Her voice trembled. He cocked his head to one side and looked at her again, his hands all the while on the table, his posture non threatening.

"It was a mistake darling. I am sorry; we should not play these games if they upset you so."

"You're not listening! There will be no more games, no more opportunity. It's over." She stood as he reached out and grasped her wrist.

"Ah my darling, it is over only when I say it is." His thumb drew lazy circles on her skin and she shuddered, too easy to fall again to the whims of this man, too easy to go back to the delicious excitement she felt when she was with him. Her pulse quickened as she shook her head again, she understood abuse and the mechanics or manipulation and she thought back on Mike's words, she would not become a statistic.

"No." She wrenched her hand away from him and pushed her face close to his. "You don't get it, come near me or mine and I swear Colonel, I will shoot you."

His eyes narrowed as she broke free from his grasp and strode to the door, before he smiled.

_Oh but when he broke her it would be so sweet._

~~~)))(((~~~

"Do you intend to move back to Baker Street?" Lestrade broke the silence as he looked at the imposing manor as the van pulled up around the back.

"Oh yes, Mummy is coming to visit and since she will most likely co-opt a create deal of our time, it's better to be here." Sherlock peered at the back door; something was off, the staff usually so calm and ordered, seem to be agitated, which could only mean one thing. He hung his head and looked apologetically to John.

"What?" John caught the look and rested his hand on Sherlock's leg.

"Mummy's already here." The young detective flung himself out the back of the van and marched up to the back door. Curiously there he waited with his head cocked to one side, the silent command understood as John caught up to him.

"She's not due until tomorrow."

"I know, she's come early. John, I.." Sherlock drew a deep breath, "I am sorry."

Surprisingly John laughed.

"What?" Sherlock looked confused.

"Well if you didn't know, what's the odd's the Mycroft also didn't know?"

Sherlock grinned and kissed him soundly. "Oh but this could be fun!"

"And again with the PDA's." Lestrade muttered.

"PDA?"

John shook his head. "Public display of affection."

"Ah." Holmes held the door open and ushered his doctor inside, leaving Lestrade to fend for himself.

They came in via the industrial kitchen on the bottom level of the house and watched the staff move to and fro, Sherlock caught the arm of one the women and looked pointedly at the back of the van.

"Outside Miranda you will find a police van with three tired and probably hungry police men inside, please go and get them and bring them in here for some supper."

She giggled as he swooped down to kiss her on the cheek.

"That was nice of you." Lestrade said as he clapped a hand to the younger man's shoulder and watched as he sent a text.

"Mycroft?" John asked.

"Mycroft." Sherlock beamed as he handed John his phone to see the message.

"Your surveillance is crap? You let Mummy travel alone? Stupid. Oh Sherlock, mean very very mean."

Sherlock grinned. "I know, but like so many things it's a skill."

"Lucky I still have my suit on." John said despondently and Lestrade laughed.

"The Duchess is truly magnificent John, she won't care what you are wearing, only that you've made her baby happy." He looked on the form of Sherlock as he bounced around corridors and corners ahead of them.

~~~))(((~~~

John would never forget the first glimpse of the Holmes Matriarch. She was beautiful as all French women are, her alabaster skin was flawless, her thick long auburn hair flecked with grey was caught away from her face with a jewelled clip, she wore simple travelling clothes of linen pants, singlet top and a soft peach jumper caught at the front.

She was tall and willowy, with slender hips and an ample bust. But it was her face, high cheekbones under that unlined skin, piercing shallow set eyes and not a hint of makeup. The soft fragrance of Dior permeated the room as she held her child to her, his face buried in her shoulder as she stroked his back with sweeping movements, despite him being almost a foot too tall for her to accommodate his lanky frame easily.

He leaned back and she took his face in her hands and kissed each cheek and then the high forehead and lips.

"My darling." She said softly. "You need to introduce me to John properly."

Sherlock held his mother's hand and led her through the conservatory to the two men who stood in the door and took John's hand in his own.

"Mummy, this is my John." He said proudly and Lestrade was gobsmacked. In all the years he had known the man, he had never had cause to see him so in love, so completely at ease with his choices and still. The radiant man beamed at John who just chuckled and shook his head.

"Amelie." John took her hand and kissed the back of the long fingers the old fashioned gallant gesture had her smile over his head to Sherlock and Lestrade knew she approved and let out a deep breath. "It is good to finally meet you in person."

"Yes I agree the phone is rather impersonal." She took them by the elbows and walked back to the window seat. "Geoffrey good to see you again."

Lestrade hoped for a moment to be spared but alas he trotted behind her and sat in the high backed wicker chair.

"Naughty Mummy, you know Mycroft is going to be royally ticked!" Sherlock broke the silence.

Her laugh was musical and her eyes twinkled with mischief, "I know but sometimes it's fun to annoy him, he's such a stick in the mud." Ah there it was John thought, the accent came through, effortlessly European.

"He worries for you, both." John admonished lightly, and Amelie laughed, she intimidated far too many people and within minutes John had wrapped her around his capable hands and slipped past all her carefully constructed defences.

"Yes, yes he does." Amelie smiled. "Oh you are adorable."

Sherlock looked stricken, Lestrade looked at the ceiling and John laughed. "Won't work you know, I'm immune." He kissed her cheek.

"Really?" her voice gently mocked. "I'm sure there is more than one way to skin a Watson."


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: Well it is an interlude and I guess I should be interluding :) And yes that means a smut alert for future chapters! Mummy however will not go quietly. *grin* Thank you for all the support, means a heap. The darkness will reappear in The Crucible but for now, ahhhh let there be light...**_

"Duchess, it's been a pleasure to see you again, but I have to take my men back to the Yard." Lestrade stood and shook her hand awkwardly as John rose and carefully manoeuvred around the china from afternoon tea.

"Do you love him?" her voice contained an eager edge as if this was the one thing she had longed for all her life, and in truth to know he was loved by another bought joy to her heart.

"With all that I am Mummy, maybe more."

"Ah yes. And how does this affect your work? Your wife?" Time to pry she thought.

Sherlock withdrew to the French doors and looked out. "It doesn't, several know and truly none care, save the few ignorant's who would doubtless find all love where I am concerned appalling."

"Geoff knows?"

"Mummy even he isn't that vacant, you saw how I introduced John to you?" Sherlock put his palm flat against the thick glass, the cold seeped into his hot flesh.

"So you are in love with him and are by virtue of that sleeping with him?"

"You already know this." He turned back to look at her, something deep within him fractured, for he feared she would not like John, that she would despise her son being queer. She was quick to read him and she quickly put her arm around his waist.

"My darling, do you remember the words of Oscar Wilde?"

"Many; to what part to you refer?" his voice had dulled as he ran a hand across his stomach, the sour taste of bile in the back of his mouth.

"Charles Gill prosecuted Wilde all those years ago for the love that _dare not speak its name_, and whilst I'm sure you would remember the response well, in it Wilde did say _There is nothing unnatural about it, the world does not understand and mocks at it and sometimes puts one in the pillory for it_. I am sure you know well, that I for one have never understood the creepy homophobia that the so called enlightened reverends of our time have. Nor do I think it unjust or unmanly. I grieve for I know it's not an easy thing, this love, for you to declare. And I am selfish enough to grieve for the loss of grandchildren, but such is a mothers right."

"But?" Sherlock felt the solitary tear that slid down his face.

"But in deference to that, you bring home to me John Watson. A Doctor, so a learned fellow, who treats you with such gentle candour and love I cannot in any way find fault. How is your brother with this?"

"Mycroft and John get along frighteningly well, when he isn't kidnapping John of course. And he tends to be arrogant and pompous; he forgets that he deals with family and not with serfs or politicians."

"I have no doubt that John would disabuse him of that notion when necessary."

"He does." Sherlock smiled.

"Tell me who hurt you?" Now to test the resolve and to find the answer to the questions that plagued her. She had no doubt that John was not involved, however, someone was. Too many times she had come to learn of the abuse Sherlock had suffered at hands that had professed love, and always much too late to offer the support he so greatly needed. This time would be different and she resolved to be there for him, no matter what.

Sherlock felt the world tilt; he had thought they agreed that Mycroft and John would not speak to her of this. He sat quickly into the chair Lestrade had recently occupied and absently rubbed his palm along his stomach.

"Don't lie to me Sherlock. I know when Mycroft said you were ill there was more to it, and I did repeatedly ask John he told me you had an ulcer and were run down by flu, but I can see the pain my child. I know your hiding, I can read you so well and I know someone hurt you. Was it John?"

Sherlock's face drained of all colour as he clutched his mother's hands in his own. "Never."

John had known they wanted a few moments together, his mother was the same, but he heard the last of the conversation and prowled into the room like an angry tiger.

"There will never be a day when I would lay a hand on him to cause pain or harm, Amelie you should know that, and if you don't I will tell it to you now."

"Then if not you, and forgive me John, it is my right to ask, then who?"

"Her name was Arabella Moriarty." Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and looked at his mother. "You travelled alone just to spite me again Mummy." His voice was bored; all the while John moved Sherlock back to the window seat and covered him with his coat. A gentle hand through the dark curls and Sherlock grew weary as he closed his eyes.

"Mycroft." She took him in her arms and kissed his cheek. "I got away from CERN earlier than anticipated; I saw no harm in coming home in my own time."

"John." Sherlock's voice was soft.

"Mmm?"

"Hurts."

"Too much vinegar on the chips I did warn you." John kissed him. "I'll get you something for it, be right back ok?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Mycroft, sit with him." John ordered as he pounded out of the room, his hand reaching to undo the regimental tie.

"You should know better than annoy John Mummy, he loves Midge, more than you realise." Sherlock settled as his brother reached a hand and held onto him, his eyes dropped closed once more.

"Midge?" Amelie smiled. "So you forgive each other then?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered sleepily.

"He does indeed have an ulcer, he was kidnapped after a long and difficult case against a psychopath, unfortunately it ran in the family and the twin sister desired to cause him harm. She locked him away in an asylum, restrained naked to a bed and fed a cocktail of legal and illegal substances. The ulcer came from the vomiting and purging and the fear came from being manhandled and abused."

Amelie was pale as she listened and poured another cup of tea, tears tracked her lovely face.

"John spent days walking London, following every lead despite a harrowing couple of days before hand, but you know what Mummy? He unlike me never gave up on my brother." And the crack finally appeared as Mycroft bent his head and Sherlock hugged him.

"It's ok. Just sleepy." Sherlock patted his brother and began to doze.

Mycroft laid him back against the cushions as Amelie raised a hand to wipe the tears from her elder child's face.

"Sometimes it is only in great tragedy and fear that we find what we lose. That you two are to be reconciled brings me great joy, and peace of mind. So, enough of this dreary talk." She looked down at her younger son. "Let him rest and we will together make dinner yes?"

Mycroft nodded. "When John gets back."

"Which I am back, ah good he's sleeping."

"Is that normal?" Amelie asked.

"He's been on a bit of roller coaster lately. When he does too much he gets tired, he needs to sleep a bit."

"Not sleeping." Sherlock mumbled.

"Yes you are." John kissed him chastely.

"Not."

"Ok." John agreed as he continued to run his hands through his hair.

"Hmmmpf" Sherlock pouted and fell asleep.

"How long will he sleep for?"

"Oh, I don't know an hour I guess."

"Did you get the job?" Mycroft asked as he stood to leave with his mother.

"Oh, yes, yes if I want it."

"What does he say?" Mycroft inclined his head towards the somnambulant man.

"Actually he didn't, I think he assumes I'll take it."

"Ah, and here I was thinking you got all dressed up for me." Amelie kissed him on the cheek and then her child as she left on Mycroft's arm.

~~~)))(((~~~

"You do like him don't you Mummy?" Mycroft put his suit jacket over the back of the pale blue chair and rolled his sleeves up.

"Honestly you think me an ogre, John is adorable and I think he suits our Sherlock well!" she admonished lightly.

"Then why did you accuse him of hurting Midge?"

"Because even when you two were in disposed of each other, when I asked before you would lie for him." Amelie fixed a stare at her son as sure hands moved to prepare the salad.

"I only did what..."

"He wanted, yes I know, but you should know darling heart that I am your mother, and I taught you both to be observant, for you to consider I was anything less is offensive." She smiled.

"Mummy."

"Oh don't sulk Mycroft I know you're annoyed with me. I know you worry and think that I may be a target because of your position or his, but I am still my own person."

"You have cause to allow me to be protective of your welfare." Mycroft was resigned.

"Because?" Amelie continued to potter around her kitchen and finally mixed a gin and tonic and held one out to her son.

"Someone took pot shots at them today in the park."

"This Moriarty?" Her eyes narrowed.

"I assume so."

"You assume. Darling it could have easily been Sophia! She has as much cause to hate him, think of all the variables first."

"Yes Mummy."

"Now of the despicable Mrs Holmes." She sat down and motioned for her son to do the same.

"I just," he drew a deep breath and steeled himself. "I was apparently not attentive enough."

"Crap. And you know it, for the love of God Mycroft you couldn't have been more attentive, Midge told you that she was a money marriage not love."

"I know. It still hurts." And he sounded so much like a wounded child she stopped and looked at him again.

"You loved her?" her voice was incredulous.

"As much as I suppose I could love another, then yes I loved her." Mycroft closed his eyes only to find himself wrapped in his mother's arms where she rocked him slowly.

"Idiot."

"So I have often been told." He raised his hands to her hips.

"So are you truly angry or just annoyed?" she rubbed soothingly across his broad shoulders.

"Both." He grumbled.

"Forgive me? I know you worry, and I give you my word I will send all my travel in future to your PDA."

"Thank you."

"Ah darling, you're my baby and I should not make you responsible for us."

"And yet I am. It is my role. Would you take that from me?"

"No, never." She bent to kiss him and this time was rewarded with a grin.

~~~)))(((~~~

"You can stop feigning sleep now Sherlock." John was curled next to the detective in the window seat.

"How did you know?" Sherlock opened his eyes and rubbed his face in the soft cotton of John's shirt. The top two buttons undone and the regimental tie askew, as hot breath coasted over skin.

"I sleep with you, I should know. She's worried for you, she didn't mean it."

"I know."

"But?"

"She thought you could hurt me like..." he stopped himself and closed his eyes.

"Like the others?" John finished and held him closer.

"Yes."

"So she was justified in her actions. Sherlock she likes me, I can tell, besides, I love you, she won't come between us."

"Do you think she really approves?" the last was hopeful from somewhere near John's chest and the smaller man giggled.

"Yes I do. How's the stomach?"

"Irritatingly sore."

"Ah so you weren't play acting completely."

"Hardly." Sherlock sat up and reversed their roles, this time he took John in his arms and held him close.

"I didn't realise your mother's approval was that important to you Sherlock."

"Ah yes another nail in the coffin of the sociopath." He smirked.

"And so far you have been very accepting of me, it just seems like you're afraid Sherlock."

"Of?" the detective bristled and from his vantage point, John felt the slight tremors and sat up to look his friend in the face.

"Doing the wrong thing." John reached forward gently.

"This is new to me John."

"What part?"

"Being in a loving relationship." His voices sounded hollow to his own ears.

"I know, but sometime soon, I expect to see my Sherlock back. I like it when you're arrogant and irrepressible, and you."

Sherlock stretched like a cat and put his hands behind his head, his eyelids half closed to cover the sliver of blue eyes and his sensual mouth quirked up in a little bend.

"You'd rather I not be so submissive?" his voice was a sultry purr and John felt the heat pool in his groin.

"I'd prefer it if you were comfortable enough to ask or in your case demand what you wanted."

"Mmmmm and here I was thinking you liked to lead." Sherlock purred.

"Stop it." John admonished.

"But you said I shouldn't be so submissive John, your confusing me." Sherlock reached out to draw the other man to him.

"Liar." John rubbed against the longer frame as he melted into the kiss.

"You wound me." Sherlock tugged on an earlobe experimentally and was rewarded with a moan.

"Nope, never, just, not the right place." John's body betrayed him at the worst possible moment as Sherlock licked under his ear and he surged forward.

"Mmm, curious seems to be the right place." Sherlock's hand began to slowly become involved in the dance as he popped the buttons on John's shirt and undid the tie.

"Sherlock, your mother could come in at any moment." John felt he had to protest, it was of course only right.

"I doubt she would mind, you should have seen some of the situations she caught Mycroft in." Teeth nipped now as the shirt was pulled from the waistband of the suit pants, jacket pushed back away as lips followed across a slightly freckled shoulder.

"Oh Gods, maybe she won't mind but Sherlock, I'm not, God, I'm not ready for her to see me naked just yet."

Sherlock slowed but didn't stop. "We could go upstairs, moya lyubov."

"Shit, Russian seriously? French and Russian?" John sat back and straightened himself.

"And about another nine, that I can read, four more I can speak passably." Sherlock's long fingers grazed down John's neck to rest at the dip of his shoulder. "Is that bad?"

"No, no, wow, just wow." John's breathing levelled out. "Upstairs sounds good."

"Can I finish unwrapping you?"

"Unwrapping me?"

"You promised." Sherlock began the tender assault again.

"Yes, yes I did."

Sherlock hummed against his throat and smiled as he stood up and offered John a hand to stand. "Wow."

"Not good?" Sherlock smirked.

"Very good, just wow." John smiled and took the proffered hand. Assertive Sherlock seemed ready play, and John felt his world bottom out as his libido kicked in.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: Ah my lovlies - so sorry for the delay in updating, absolutely horrid and busy week, interstate business trip, sister's birthday, 2 concerts and a school camp, Lordy Lord am I happy about 3 days of peace and quiet! Ok again un beta'd, all mistake are mine, reviews are loved! Thanks again for staying with this trip, there are 3-4 more chapters of this and then on to Crucible. Love you all!**_

John jumped slightly as he heard the door close and with it the unmistakable sound of the tumbler turning to lock it, he looked over his shoulder and his breath caught in his throat. Sherlock lazed back against the door, all insolent arrogance as he crossed his arms across his lean chest and narrowed his eyes. John felt very much like a rabbit caught in the headlights and blinked as he turned slowly.

"So, it occurs to me," Sherlock drawled, his baritone roughed from desire as he looked at his quarry, "that during my time in hospital and later you have had ample opportunity to see all of me."

John mouth went dry as he nodded mutely.

"Ah, and since turnabout is fair play, I think it only courteous of you to allow me to see exactly what I'm getting."

"Having doubts?" John managed through dry lips.

"Now I'm reminded of the fact that you're a soldier."

"Was a soldier." John amended.

"Always a soldier."Sherlock corrected, "And soldiers are used to taking orders are you not?"

"Yes," John narrowed his eyes, he never for a moment expected Sherlock to be into role play, but hell, right now he was sprung as tight as he could go and didn't really care what Sherlock wanted to do, just so long as it involved some very hot uncomplicated sex.

"Yes what?" Sherlock still had not moved from his insouciant slouch by the door.

"Sir, yes sir." John smirked as he saluted and stood at attention.

"Better, much better, you can stand at ease."

John immediately followed the order and felt himself smile; his drill sergeant would have a field day with him if he saw him right now. Shirt unbuttoned and hanging out of his suit pants, regimental tie askew and partially undone, not to mention the large tell tale bulge in the front of his pants. Oh yes, definitely parade ground material, not.

Now Sherlock prowled forward with all the sensual grace of a hunting cat his warm palm traced the bulge in John's pants. He barely skimmed the surface before he withdrew and the Doctor's hips followed him involuntarily. John bit back on a moan as he glared at his lover.

Sherlock continued his inspection, the hand moved around to his arse, down to the gap between his thighs, as he moved lower still to the back of his legs, John vaguely realised that Sherlock had to be on his knees and he longed to see that sight. He closed his eyes, and bit back on the keening that had begun in his throat.

The hand was removed and John managed to still his body and voice, when he was once again silent Sherlock went back to his inexorable exploration. Warm hands lifted the shirt away from passion warmed skin as Sherlock run his thumbs into the small of his back and rubbed gently, his chin resting on John's shoulder as he closed his eyes and listened intently. John couldn't help the sigh that escaped his lips, too warm too reassuring and too sensual his body fought the conflicting emotions as he screwed his eyes shut. His cock throbbed in counterpoint to Sherlock's warm breath as it passed over his neck.

And then the hands were back under the shirt teasing and gently tickling his sides before he pulled the shirt free at the front and in one deft movement divested John of both shirt and jacket, the tie remained stubbornly in place as Sherlock looped his fingers in the silk and moved towards the bed, pulling John along with him as you would lead a puppy.

Sherlock turned and rubbed his hands across the well muscled compact body before him, fingers lingered against the collar bones, up the sweep of neck and down to the trim waist that his large hands almost encompassed. It was true that Sherlock was long and angular and that against him John appeared short and stout, but the truth was he was perfectly formed. His body was flawed by life with the scar that marred his left shoulder, large sturdy hands that could equally heal as quickly as they could defend. All that coiled power and training kept in check as John's eyes were blown with desire. A damp patch against the crotch of his pants was testament to his need. And Sherlock bent his head to inhale the heady scent of his mate.

Fingers worked now to open the belt and fly and he pulled the pants open but not off and John frowned.

"I thought you wanted to ride me?" John's voice was course now, as his hands shook when he pushed them into Sherlock's hair.

"Oh God." Sherlock breathed in again. "You have no idea of how close I come to loosing myself in you."

"Is this a bad thing?" John kissed the top of Sherlock's head as he sat down on the bed and spared his back. His face still buried in John's crotch.

"I don't know." He looked up just as he slid his mouth over John's cock and hollowed out his cheeks.

"Holy Fuck." John's hand dropped to Sherlock's head as he slowed the frantic pace and lengthened his thrusts. His eyes never left the man on the bed. The detective reached his hand up and smoothed along the flat stomach, only to be caught in a strong capable hand as they rocked together slowly. John could see the sweat build up on Sherlock's back as his shoulders rolled with the exertion and the pale silk shirt began to stick to him. John was mesmerised by the sight of his cock pushing in against the plush lips and the clever tongue that whirled and teased him to the brink of orgasm and then pulled back.

With one last loud pop Sherlock released the saliva slicked cock and leaned back on his hands as he looked up, long dark lashes barely covered the pale blue eyes and he smiled slowly.

John stilled and bent down to kiss Sherlock into the mattress, his knees on either side of his hips as he slowly drew his naked flesh across the suit fabric and found an answering hardness beneath the fine linen. Sherlock reached up with both hands and cradled Johns head as he looked into the eyes of the man above him.

"So you prefer to be on top." Sherlock deduced.

"Well now," John bent to press a kiss to the lips before him, "I could also deduce you prefer to be on your back."

Sherlock's laugh was infectious, it was gentle and rhythmic and it rumbled and tickled in the most delicious ways as John wriggled off the bed and toed his shoes off.

"Permission to get butt naked, sir?" John's hands stopped at his waist as he looked down at the man sprawled elegantly across the bed and grinned.

"Oh yes, permission? Yes permission granted, please?" Sherlock mumbled as he watched John slowly strip the dark pants down his well toned legs and throw them on the chair in the corner. The briefs were next and within a few moments John resumed his parade ground rest as he clasped his hands behind his back.

Sherlock was galvanised, here was this man who loved him beyond all reason, who would give himself over so completely to whatever Sherlock desired of him. He would allow anything, any touch, any words, any physical trespass so long as it was with love and the first trickle of tears spilled from Sherlock's eyes as he smiled lopsidedly and pulled John back onto the bed.

"Second thoughts?" John asked softly as he wiped the tears from the man's face and kissed him gently.

"Never." Sherlock mumbled as he buried his face in John's neck and inhaled the scent of the man his arm went around John's waist and pulled him flush against his body. "I want you." Sherlock said finally and John smiled.

"Thought you'd never ask." And there it was again that certain gentleness that undid him every single time; John gave himself and of himself and Sherlock had watched many times just how close others could come. How many people wandered into his orbit to be sent spinning away because John would do nothing half hearted, it was all or nothing, and it was that commitment that sent a new wave of desire coursing through his body.

John pulled the button on his shirt open to lay bare the flesh of his chest, down further to the suit pants he pushed the fabric from the Sherlock's body and rubbed at the protruding flesh. Sherlock arched his back from the bed and closed his eyes, fingers fisted the sheets as he moaned wantonly and John squeezed as he poured the lube over heated flesh. Sherlock's eyes flashed open as he watched John intently coat his cock with the cool liquid and frowned, uncertain as to his lover's intentions. He watched even more liquid poured into John's palm as he lifted one leg onto the side of the bed.

Sherlock's breath came out in a quick exhale as he watched John slowly and deliberately coat the fingers of his hand and reached back in full view of his lover's hungry eyes to prepare himself thoroughly. Sherlock watched the emotions as they raced across the expressive features as he rubbed around his perineum and slowly he lifted his leg higher to give the detective a better visual as he pushed one then two and finally three fingers into his arse as he slowly pumped his cock.

John smiled as he pulled his hands away and Sherlock let go a moan of protest. It was short lived as John straddled his thighs and took his length in one smooth movement, one hand braced against Sherlock's shoulder for support, the other around the prone man as he guided him into his entrance and threw back his head.

Too long on the edge, too hot and wired, as Sherlock watched the features of his lover contort into agony and then bliss as the thin hips rose to match each downward thrust the doctor made. John rocked his hips and set a bruising pace as flesh collided with flesh and the sweat of their union fell unheeded into the sheets beneath them. Sherlock's fingers clutched at John's thighs tight enough to leave bruises. Breathes hitched as John pitched over and claimed the detective's mouth in a long sensual kiss, the thrust of Johns tongue in perfect tempo to the hot flesh that scoured him inside and burnt along his spine.

Sherlock's orgasm was impressive, his body arched into the heat around his groin, fingers dug painfully into John's thighs again as he pushed up as far as humanly possible and felt John's growl vibrate into his own stomach. He came apart at the seams, his heart hammered and too soon it ended, both moaned their release into each other's mouths as John came in long thick ropes along the detectives pale flesh, when Sherlock spent himself inside the heat of his mate, his lover he whited out for a few moments.

Sherlock fell into the blessed release of quietitude as he closed his eyes, the only sound that permeated was the thud of his heart, the heavy breathes and the scent of sex. The cruel voice that mocked him, the ceaseless noise as he catalogued each thing around him and discarded it was silent and for that he was immensely grateful.

He came back to himself to find John still sat astride him; his hand rubbed his come into Sherlock's body.

"Mine." John said softly as he reached his arms above his head and stretched and Sherlock pulled him down again into a gentle kiss as he rolled onto his side and pulled John up to look him in the eye.

"I love you." Sherlock smiled. "I never thought I would or could but I do John, I love you." He kissed him again; sleep pulled him under as John covered them with the soft blanket at the end of the bed and curled into his side.

"Never get tired of hearing that." John murmured.

"Not scared." Sherlock said even softer and John ran his hand across his chest and pulled the shirt closed.

"Good."

"No John not scared of you." John didn't know what to say, and since he wasn't particularly brave these days he simply held the man tighter and nodded.

Trusted, John concluded, finally he was truly trusted, and nothing could break the bond.

~~~)))(((~~~

Mycroft huffed and hid his smile behind the normally stoic mask as he looked at the two men curled around each other in the bed. By now it was normal for him to see Sherlock's head tucked under Johns chin, the curls just beneath the shorter man's nose as Sherlock clutched John to him like a giant Teddy Bear. When he was younger Sherlock had a friend, a small velour puppy that Mycroft had won for him at Brighton when he was three. He knew that Sherlock still had 'pup' but tended to disappear from view when Mycroft arrived.

Secretly he knew the soft toy was on his bed in Baker Street and he smiled again, such a contradiction was his baby brother, and despite years of hostility and treachery through all of that he had still been loved, and that was why Mycroft felt the bitterness of all those years keener than Sherlock could ever imagine.

He tapped his foot again on the floor and John opened one eye to glare at him.

"The door was locked." Sherlock said though he feigned sleep admirably well.

"You should know better than that Midge, no door is locked to me." Mycroft smirked and John flushed as he pulled the blanket higher.

"You realise voyeurism even for you is peculiar." Sherlock teased as he rolled onto his back.

"Now now Midge, play nice. Mummy has made supper and you've been here for almost three hours."

"Sherlock always plays nice." John said softly, damn he was over feeling out of his depth where Mycroft was concerned and decided he was done with being insecure around the controlled black hearted man.

Mycroft flushed and Sherlock hooted with laughter as he rolled on the bed.

"If you're done, I'll tell Mummy you'll both be down in ten minutes, will that be enough time to shower?"

"Only if we go in alone." John continued getting the hang of harassing Mycroft, he could understand why Sherlock did it now, if felt good. And it wasn't mean, it really had never been mean, childish yes, but then no one else other than Sherlock and now it seemed himself could be rude and get away with it to the man.

"I see." Mycroft spluttered.

"God I really hope you don't." John pushed the bedding away and walked stark naked to the ensuite bathroom and closed the door.

Sherlock watched him leave and appreciated the view, Mycroft watched Sherlock.

"No one other than you dear brother." Mycroft said softly.

"Yes but then no one other than me before had the balls to tell you what they thought." Sherlock answered lazily.

"And John does?" Mycroft asked and then mentally kicked himself.

"Oh yes, yes he does indeed." Mycroft felt his face flush again as he headed towards the door. "Nice, round, and heavy." Sherlock said and laughed again as the door slammed.

He got up, stripped quickly and almost sprinted into the shower; needless to say it was over twenty minutes before they made it to dinner.


	7. Chapter 7

_**~~ random mutterings which may end up in a fic somewhere...I HAD THOUGHT MYSELF A MONSTER. TO BE SO RETICENT, AND UNFEELING, AND THEN I REALISED IF IN TRUTH I WAS THAT DREADED PHANTASM THAT PLAGUED MY NIGHTS AND FUELLED MY DAYS WITH SELF INDULGENT ECCENTRICITIES, THEN BY VIRTUE I DID BUT HAUNT MYSELF, AND HOW THEN AM I MEANT TO BE ANYTHING OTHER THAN A MAN?**_

_**On other notes - life just keeps biting here, but is getting better, so sorry for the delay, thank you so much for all your support and remember the starving bunny needs reviews to be fed...**_

John skidded into the kitchen just ahead of Sherlock and halted his frantic pace as Amelie looked at him and stifled a laugh.

"You're late." She said in her best stern voice.

"Sorry."

"My fault Mummy, I needed to sleep." Sherlock slipped his hand into the small of John's back and pushed him into the kitchen.

"Are you feeling better my darling?" she asked without looking up, her hands busy laying the table.

"Oh yes, much better. Hungry even, did you make spinach pie?" he opened the oven door, only to have his mother smack his hand aside, much to Mycrofts delight.

"It's Swiss chard." Amelie corrected.

John was mildly surprised to view the meal, a simple salad dressed with hazelnut oil and vinegar, the deep chard tart with its cheesy egg custard, and he spied what looked like poached pears on the bench. Coupled with pate and cheese and baguette, the small table nearly groaned under the weight. Mycroft opened a bottle of red and passed John a glass, which Sherlock neatly took from his hand and drank.

"Is he allowed that?" Mycroft poured another.

"You take it from him." John challenged and smiled before he turned his attention back to Amelie as she drew them all to the table. "Do you have any plans for while your home?" He asked as he dropped into the seat, Sherlock sat next to him, one long leg wound around the doctor's calf under the table.

"Some, there is a new range of linen I'd like to take a look at, then of course I should have to visit with the oldies."

"Really Mummy, must we go?" Mycroft almost whined.

"Yes." She said firmly as she cut the tart.

"No, no, Mycroft must you always miss the obvious?" Sherlock put his head on his hands.

"What? Oh yes the linen." Mycroft's smile was sinister as it spread across his face and John's world tilted sideways. He knew where this was going, how to stop it he didn't know.

"Redecorating." John caught up and breathed the word with ill manner contempt.

"Precisely, Mummy you do not want to redecorate our flat." Sherlock bit into the buttery pastry and closed his eyes despite his hard tone.

"Why ever not? Your idea of decorating is op shop gothic chic." Amelie spread the napkin on her lap.

"It has a name?" John asked bemused.

"Yes, I know my son, and I know his rather eclectic tastes. But now he is attached it should be a home, not uni digs littered with experiements."

"What if I don't want you to redecorate?" John asked and Sherlock let the breath go he was holding. God he loved this man, he stood up to everyone for him, even Mummy.

"Come now John, you must let me do this for you, since I am forever in your debt."

"Loving Sherlock does not incur a debt Amelie. It is my pleasure." John continued to eat in his unflappable manner.

"Ah but a mother's love is something I can bestow, think of it as a gift."

"Only if you approve." John continued calm and cool as the Holme's brothers watched him in amazement.

"Of someone loving my child, of course I approve. I intend to be the perfect mother-in-law."

"I doubt Sophia would agree with that." Mycroft broke his reverie and began to dish food onto his plate.

"She would agree to nothing darling heart, she has loathed me from the first."

"Without reason?" Mycroft asked and Sherlock sighed inwardly.

"Stop it. Both of you." This was John and again all eyes swivelled to him.

"John?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Look, I've never met Sophia but she doesn't appear to engender trust or love. So why should mother and son argue about something they ultimately agree on?"

Sherlock kissed him at the dinner table and Amelie hooted with laughter. Even Mycroft smirked.

"That was immature and unnecessary." John chided as he wiped his thumb across Sherlocks mouth and smiled.

"I know." Sherlock pushed his food around his plate and picked at it,his stomach cramped painfully and suddenly his appetite fled.

"So if you are intent on redecorating, it will be only with my approval." John looked up at Amelie as he wiped his mouth on the napkin.

"Wait, are you giving me your permission?" Amelie's eyes twinkled.

"No, I doubt anyone has the right to give you permission for anything, I am however, going with you. The last thing I want to wake up to is lace doileys."

"Yes John." Amelie said meekly and smiled. Mycroft continued to eat, now onto his second helping and Sherlock rolled his eyes, as a compromise it was probably the best he'd get.

"Have you had any further luck with that case you're working on?" Mycroft asked in a sudden attempt to change the topic.

"A few ideas yes, but I need John to look at the autopsy notes before I'm certain."

"Such charming dinner table conversation!" Amelie shuddered as she cleared away the dishes and laid the fruit and custard on the table.

"You know the world better in some ways than I do Mummy, what causes a person to gamble with their lives?" Sherlock turned to look as his mother.

"We gamble everyday don't we? With alcohol, drugs, unsafe sex, adrenaline fuelled extreme sports all of which have the capacity to kill or severley maim us."

"For an adrenaline hit? Someone would gamble their lives? Seriously? I mean all of what you've said has the potential to kill or maim, but no that's not it, those things are not an absolute."

"Like Russian Roulette?" She scowled as she dished out the desert.

"Yes, precisely. What motivates a person like that?"

"Fear is a great motivator." Mycroft theorised.

"Money." John nodded.

"Love." Amelie added.

"All worthy in their own right, but they had money, they were well placed, in a gambling club so why did they choose to die?" Sherlock shook his head.

"Maybe." John put his hand on Sherlock's knee. "Maybe they were hunted."

"Pardon?" Amelie sat back and wiped her hands on the napkin.

"Yes, yes, I think John might have it right." Mycroft steepled his hands together and rested them under his chin on the table.

"Explain." Sherlock's eyes were hard jewels in the soft light, the thrill of the case opening for him.

"A few years ago there was a small scandal brewing about an extreme gentelmen's club do you remember?" Mycroft asked.

"Ah yes, of course, headed up by the South African big game hunter, Colonel Moran!" Sherlock shook his head.

"Well I don't know about it." John interjected.

"Nor I." Amelie had the same feral light in her beautiful eyes.

"Ah, well. The scandal at the time went like this, you went into the club willingly, were vetted of course and in order to rise in the ranks you completed a list of challenges. Each one put you and your partner in more physical danger. Varied from shoplifting, to pickpocket and escalated into major fraud, theft well you get the basic idea. At the top of the tree, when you reached it you would eventually need to play hunter and hunted, that of course did not require you to die. If you were caught you would forfeit what you had won and go back several levels."

"And since the dares consisted of illegal enterprises and actions no one ever complained to the police." Sherlock continued from his brother.

"However, one of the players got caught for their actions."

"By the police of all people." Sherlock scoffed.

"Quite so, however, charges were never bought, their thievery and games involved each other and not outsiders. So no one was there to press charges and it all went away."

"That was four, no five years ago if I remember." Sherlock threw his head back and stared at the ceiling.

"And the players were never found, it was impossible to break the silence around the group and since they were harming each other and not the world at large, they were ignored."

"Now however they are playing for keeps."

"So they what? They join like a bridge club, and rise in the rankings until they reach a level where they agree to be hunted?" John's voice was incredulous.

"Yes. Except this time, if they lose there is not monetary forfeit, this time they pay with their lives, oh but it is elegant." Sherlock smiled.

"I think it's horrid." Amelie had been stunned into silence as the men talked. "So is this the world you work in?"

"Yes Mummy. And without Sherlock and John in it, many more innocent lives would be lost." Mycroft poured the Muscat into small glasses and handed them around the table, as Sherlock pulled off a hunk of bread and squished the camembert into it. Oddly enough he played with the food, picked off pieces of the bread and dropped them onto the plate. John frowned.

"He, we, are not in this world Amelie. I think that is the difference. Without Sherlock's memory and insight Lestrade and all his officers would be hard pressed to keep the criminal classes back from the genteel suburban doors." John rose to stack dishes in the dishwasher.

"Yes I understand, it's just rather disturbing."

"Most things are." Sherlock agreed.

"Do you still have Yorick?" Amelie asked.

"If you redecorate Mummy, it had better be around my skull." Sherlock intoned.

"But of course. By the way John when do you intend to marry my son?" John nearly dropped the dishes. Amelie delighted in this of course, finally a chink in the armour. She watched as Sherlock fidgeted, blushed and looked stricken. Mycroft downed his liqueur in one hit and John wiped his hands as he turned back to her.

"I think we would like to just live together for a while first, as partners, not flatmates."He corrected.

"Sherlock Watson?" Sherlock asked and winced.

"Better than John Holmes." John shook his head.

"Why?" Sherlock looked bemused, he thought it was quite a refined name.

"Oh love, sometimes you can be niave." John smiled.

"Because,"Amelie answered with malicious delight, "John Holmes was the name of a well known porn star in the late 70's."

"I don't know which is more disturbing, the fact that you asked my partner when he intended to marry me, " Sherlock drew breath.

"Or the fact that Mummy knows about a porn star." Mycroft for all his worldly wiles went pale.

John bent over with his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath from laughter.

"Amelie, you are indeed wicked." He kissed her on the cheek.

"Well now you don't think either of these were immaculate conceptions do you?"

"Sometimes, I must admit I had had cause to wonder. Besides, I told you I'm immune." John kissed her again as he walked around the table and took hold of Sherlock's hand. "Walk?" he asked softly.

Speechless for one of the first times in his life Sherlock got up from the table as John towed him out the door into the conservatory.

~~~)))(((~~~

They sat in the window seat for long while, both quiet, wrapped around each other as Sherlock pondered his case and John watched the night sky. The stars brilliant against the inky blackness and he felt complete for the first time in a long time.

"Would you?" Sherlock finally asked hesitantly.

"Marry you? Of course if it's what you wanted." John ran his hand down Sherlock's back and closed his eyes.

"Really?" Sherlock turned to look him in the eye. "Do you promise to ask me if I did?" Sherlock smirked.

"You want the whole down on one knee? Romantic dinner and ring bit?" John kissed him slowly.

"I don't know John, I think, I might."

"A ring and a vow does not make me stay. You make me stay, and I decide to be with you now for as long as you want me. This feels permanent if you want to plan ahead for a future by all means, we can do that together."

"So you don't want to get married?"

"Not yet, no. Doesn't mean I don't love you, it's just a bit new. Why is it something you need?" John soothed him again with a soft kiss.

"I don't know. I never thought about getting married. I presumed if I did grow old it would be alone. My eccentricities preclude most from getting close and it was an unnecessary burden to have to worry about someone else."

"But now your mother has bought it up, and no doubt my mother will as well."

"Have you told her yet?"

"About you?"

"No John about the roses, of course about me, sometimes I think you're vacant on purpose." Sherlock pouted.

"Sometimes I am. No I haven't told her, but I do intend to. It's been a bit turbulent lately, I thought we could just sort ourselves out a bit first."

"I see."

"Do you?" John looked surprised.

"No not really, but" Sherlock shrugged. "I need to text Lestrade."

"Ok." John handed over his phone and watched as Sherlock sent the text. "Solved?"

"Almost. But unfortunately I doubt if there will be any arrest in this one, if they follow true to form they will go to ground again."

"Brilliant." John said with a fine edge of sarcasm. "By the way, you are supposed to tell me when you hurt."

Sherlock scowled. "It's not that bad."

"As your friend.." John tried again.

"You don't need to fret.."

"As your Doctor." John insisted.

"It's fine."

"Sherlock, as someone who loves you." John calmed his voice and pushed a warm palm against Sherlock's cheek.

"It hurts all the time." Sherlock finally admitted.

"Are you bleeding anywhere?"

"No. It just burns."

"The wine wouldn't have helped, or the vinegar for lunch or the fat."

"You keep telling me I'm underweight." Sherlock's eyes drifted closed.

"We'll have to work on it a bit better than yes?"

"I don't understand."

"Better choices."

"Ah, speaking of choices when do you start work?"

"Probably in the New Year, though I would assume there would be several more meetings and I'd need to familiarize myself with their current system."

"And the only way to do that is work in it."

"So it seems. You're not angry with me for agreeing to your mother's request?"

"I really don't want her to redecorate, she's into the whole French Provincial thing."

"I thought it was shabby chic." John laughed.

"Yes so does Mycroft. "

"Oh well maybe I can convince her to deck the flat out like a lab."

"Tease." Sherlock rubbed his hand over his stomach again, his mood suddenly sombre and melancholy.

"Never, do you want to go to bed and cuddle?"

"Yes, oh God yes."

~~~)))(((~~~

The Professor had hand picked him, he was the golden child even over The Professors own children. The adopted brats were a disappointment, locked within their own psychosis they manipulated the game, one whose opponent was uniquely placed to outwit and win over them.

Sebastian Moran paced, he had gotten it wrong, Sally Donovan meant what she'd said, and he needed her, needed her compromised to get close to Holmes. James had thought that Watson was the key and on viewing Arabela's tapes, John was uttered with alarming regularity.

For a man who professed to be a sociopath he was certainly reliant on one small army doctor.

But they had it wrong, John Watson was just a man, true he held the heart of Holmes, but still he was a man. And Holmes had succeeded on his intellect alone for many years before the Doctor.

Moran squared his shoulders, and looked out at the slumbering city of London, plans already began to form in his eager mind, and he smiled.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: Thank you for your wonderful support over the last month. I am sorry I haven't posted for a while, my darling husband of 20+ years had a stroke with complications 3 weeks ago and real life just kept biting. Without the support and love of our family and friends we would not have made it, but we are back, bruised and battered by life, but still whole and still good...thank you again.**_

Asleep John was incredibly appealing. His careworn face relaxed in sleep as he nuzzled at the warm pillow. Sherlock for his part had lifted onto an elbow and watched him intently. Aware that on some level that his bed mate had moved as Sherlock reached a gentle hand across to push through the short cropped hair. A simple intimate gesture of love that spoke louder than the more trite phrases, one had to declare.

He looked down at his own arm, and shuddered. The track marks paled to silver against his skin, the cut marks the same, all the time to exorcise demons he didn't fully understand, all the time the pain made his heartache real, gave it voice and volume until he screamed in his own mind and for a brief respite his head was quiet.

He wondered in amazement that there was now calm within his soul, one he did not expect nor was aware he missed so terribly. It was as if breath itself was unavailable he would know now, how it felt to be loved and to love in return. All the while his partner slept and Sherlock could not begrudge him his rest as he recalled the turmoil of the past few weeks.

Sherlock rubbed the palm of his hands into his eyes and drew a deep breath. Always something to worry over, something to fret about, a game to play but this, he looked down at John again, this was no game.

With the stealth born of years of sleuthing he slid sideways from the bed and threw his robe around his shoulders as he headed to the large arched window in the bedroom.

The trees and grounds looked the same as they had always looked, the décor of the rooms had never changed and yet now a subtle glow was diffused across the landscape that made him feel warm despite t he chill in the air.

So much now to loose, so much to think about but strangely his heart leapt in his chest with hope and joy, not with the dark misgivings his was so prone too in his melancholia.

But still in the tempered light of truth he felt the world spin inexorably away from himself; would he be the death of John? Would he loose his heart and his respect and in doing so damn himself to a fate worse than perditions flames? Would he feel compelled to, God forbid, marry the man asleep in the dark cotton of his bed. He shuddered theatrically as he chided himself that was something he had never considered before.

He scowled now angry at his mother for opening in him a powerful wound. He turned to look as John became restless in the bed and reached out for the comfort of his partner. Even in sleep John sought him out in the middle of the night and it was odd. He knew the other man had suffered debilitating nightmares since being invalided home. But now he slept soundly, though not soundlessly if the light snore was anything to go by.

Soft, Sherlock scowled at the errant word that floated through his mind, he was going soft, and for the first time in his life it didn't bother him. His father has once accused him of being a wastrel and a bounder, with little care for his family and no care for himself. But then Father always was judgemental which lead straight back to Mummy.

He never considered the need to bond to another person, never understood the irritating palsy of being alone, and now, now that changed, his perception, though keen, had shifted and he sighed irritably.

This would not do, Moriarty was still alive and kicking and beside him another dozen or more who would take his place. To give up the Wife? Well now that was the question, to change from wife to husband and be content and vacant like all the others around him. Perhaps they could retire in Somerset and raise bees. Sherlock laughed quietly, bees indeed. Perhaps one day, but not now. Part of John's allure was that he was more than capable of looking after himself, and if truth be known of keeping Sherlock alive. John thrived on the thrill of the chase just as much as he did and to allow that to be taken away was just insane.

Both of them would go mad with boredom and as the rooms at Baker Street attested a bored Sherlock took pot shots at the walls. And that same boredom would spell doom for this love, this fledgling relationship. This breath in his soul that he didn't know he lived without and now, he knew to go back there, to the darkness, the drugs and the isolation would cripple him. The great mind would cease, the body would wither and he knew he would take stupid stupid risks to feel his blood pound and his pulse race in the chase just to remember those sturdy arms around him, the warmth of the tea stained breath upon him and the unconditional love he fell into the amber depths of John's eyes. Nothing compared to this quickening and he felt ill just at the thought of going back to that life.

"You think too much." John's voice rumbled softly from the bed and Sherlock smirked.

"I could apologise." Sherlock offered softly all the while his face turned towards the leaden blackness of the window.

"But you won't." John smiled then, Sherlock could hear it in his voice.

"No probably not."

"So deducting the secrets of the universe or just the back yard?" A warmth at his back alerted Sherlock a second before the arms circled his waist and he tipped his head back.

"Neither. Just thinking."

"About?"

"Bees." Sherlock said finally.

"Bees?"

"About retiring in Somerset to keep bees."

"Ah when?" John became rigid and the embrace faltered.

"Not any time soon, although I had considered it, this life John, is dangerous."

"No more so than Afghanistan."

"That's where you're wrong in Afghanistan you had an enemy that you could usually identify, here in this battleground as Mycroft calls it, you never know who to trust."

"I trust you, that's enough."

"Is it? There are things John, things I've done that would change your mind."

"And for me also, I'm a doctor and a bloody good one, but I was also a soldier and some of the things I did well, let's just say I'm no humanitarian." John turned Sherlock in his arms and looked up at the man.

"What does that make us then?"

"Human Sherlock, it makes us human, and fallible and fragile and all the wonderful and horrid things we can be."

"Bed?"

"Mmmm, yes it's cold out here, and I need my rest."

Sherlock nodded and then looked confused. "Because?"

"Tomorrow is shopping day with Mummy remember?"

"Argh, better you than me."

"Ah well, things we do for love huh? Will you meet us for lunch?"

"Of course, I may even be persuaded to tag along."

"You? Shopping? Like actually going into a shop?"

"I've been known too." Sherlock smirked.

"Yes, you've also been known to be thrown out of Tesco's."

"Once John really, besides I've never been thrown out of Laura Ashley."

"Because, you've never been to Laura Ashley."

"See now, we can do a lot of new things together." Sherlock grinned manically as John tipped him onto t he bed and straddled his chest. "Breathing right now would be good." Sherlock grunted.

"Breathing," John leant forward which elicited a grunt from the prone man, "Is highly overrated."

"I may have to rethink your medical skills," Sherlock mumbled as John covered his mouth with his own.

"Shut up Sherlock." John growled.

~~~~)))oo(((~~~~

"Honestly Mummy I don't know why you're so angry. I behaved." Sherlock pouted as he helped carry in the massive bags, he should have been relieved, the small mountain of linen and assortments were Mummy's, his shopping, John had insisted be delivered to Baker Street.

"Behaved?" Amelie shot a gimlet stare at her youngest son. "As what precisely did you behave?"

John snickered, despite his increasing frustration, Sherlock's juvenile actions and the sheer exhaustion that came from shopping with two Holmes's; he could see the lighter side, especially when Sherlock continued to pout.

"I was good Mummy."

"No, no Sherlock you were not good." John intervened before the war could escalate to global. "You were difficult, you insulted the shop assistant. You were over bearing, arrogant and juvenile." John felt he had hit his stride as he continued. "And you upset your mother, on more than one occasion, and despite my reluctance in redecorating our flat, you continued to insult her purchases and mine."

Sherlock hung his head like a six foot tall wounded child and scuffed the ground with his foot, both hands shoved down into the pockets of his Belstaff coat. "Sorry." He muttered.

"Yes I should think you are." Mummy smiled and tipped his face up to look into anything but contrite grey eyes.

"I like shopping, really I do." Sherlock insisted.

"Ahuh, as long as it's in the morgue." Amelie shot back, "Go to your room." She ordered with an imperious wave of the hand.

"But Mummy I can't, John and I have to go to Scotland Yard."

John looked up sharply, this was the first he'd heard about it and narrowed his eyes.

"Honestly." He waved his phone in the direction of the disbelieving glares and pointed to Lestrades message.

"John I expect you to keep him on a leash." Amelie frowned. "Tomorrow I shall meet with the decorators at the flat."

"But Mummy." Sherlock whined, yes he was capable of it.

"No buts Sherlock! Since you're an adult more or less, I shall wreak my revenge upon you in other ways."

John was astounded, Sherlock actually looked horrified. "Yes Mummy." He nodded and all humour fled as he looked around the room confused for a moment.

"You forgot to eat today love." John ran his hand through the unruly curls.

"Sorry." Sherlock caught his lower lip between white teeth and blinked owlishly.

"No, no it's alright, my fault really I should have thought." John cupped the warm jaw and reached up to brush the curls back from the high forehead. "Come on, Greg can wait for you to eat."

Sherlock nodded and fell into step, as Amelie shot a worried stare at the retreating form. "John? Should I be concerned?"

"I'm not really sure." John admitted as he followed Sherlock into Mummy's kitchen and began to prepare scrambled eggs and toast. Amelie made the pot of tea and finally sat at the table with the two men as Sherlock looked curiously at the eggs and poked the pale mound unenthusiastically with a fork.

"Eat."Mummy ordered and Sherlock obeyed instantly.

He grimaced on the third forkful and looked forlornly around the room. "What's wrong?" John asked softly as he leaned against Sherlock who trembled slightly.

"Don't know." Sherlock frowned again as tears slipped from his eyes unchecked.

"Come on sweetheart, tell me." John crooned softly.

"Don't know, just feel strange."

"How strange?" John continued. "Does it hurt anywhere?"

"No, I don't think so."

"You don't think so?" John asked again as his fingers slipped to the supine wrist and counted off the beats.

"No, no hurt. Food is sticking." He opened his mouth like a goldfish several times but continued to eat, albeit slowly.

"Sticking?" Amelie asked.

"Sherlock has trouble eating; sometimes the food sticks in his mouth and feels claggy. He has an ulcer as well, but I thought we had that under control. Pulse is strong but erratic." From his pocket he fished out a small flashlight and flicked it into Sherlock's eyes. "Pupils are normal." Hand to the forehead. "Mmmmm, slight temperature."

"Tired." Sherlock finally said as he pushed the plate away and sipped disdainfully at the tea.

"Exhausted more like it. Damn it Sherlock you said you'd slept last night."

"I did." Sherlock insisted, but the tears continued to flow.

"Sweetheart, please don't, it's not necessary." John pulled the unresisting body into his arms and rocked slowly. "Please, whatever it is, it's not unforgivable, you're safe love, totally safe." He continued the litany of softly crooned words as Sherlock began to grow lax in his arms.

"John?" as Amelie watched her dismay grew.

"Post traumatic stress disorder. Moriarty did a real hatchet job on his psyche, obviously something set it off." John continued to rub the long back.

"Lavender." Sherlock sniffed softly. "It was lavender. One of the nurses used it as antiseptic."

"In the shop, the bedding was strewn with French Lavender." John muttered. "So you had a flashback, in the shop, Sherlock that was nearly two hours ago. So maybe it primed you, but something else frightened you."

"No that's all." Sherlock rubbed his face against the soft wool of John's jumper.

"You my love are an appalling liar." Amelie said softly.

"Sod off Mummy." Sherlock grouched John was not expecting the soft chuckle from those dainty lips as she bent to kiss the back of his head.

"Language child." She admonished lightly and left the room.

"What was it?"

"Nothing."

Frustrated John pushed Sherlock away to look in his face; his heart ached when he saw the tears begin again.

"Mummy said you should keep me on a leash." Sherlock relented but refused to look up.

"And?"

The thin shoulders shrugged. "It was one of the more powerful hallucinations; I was on a leash, being led by Moriarty to watch horrid, horrid things." His voice thinned to a whisper as John held himself still, aware that Sherlock suffered such depravity at the hands of another, for nothing more than his vast intellect.

"And you felt worthless?" John understood that feeling far too well and for Sherlock to know it, even in part made the bile boil in his gut.

"And useless." Sherlock whispered on a sob and wrapped his arms around his stomach, as he sought cold comfort in his own arms.

"And stressed. Which you don't deal well with, because you never acknowledged it before. Sherlock right now we have to get you comfortable, but you're not now, nor have you ever been worthless or useless. I love you." Finally John took the man back in his arms and hugged him gently. "I will always love you even if we keep bees."

The last elicited a tiny chuckle as Sherlock burrowed down into the warmth and breathed in the scent of safety as John held him fast.

"I know you fought hard to get clean and the thought of using medication now makes you feel sick to the stomach, but Sherlock, maybe we need to help you with this more than we are doing."

"No, I don't want to deal with it; I want it to go away."

"As do I love, as do I, but maybe we need a little more help."

"What are you suggesting?" Sherlock asked defensively.

"There are some medications that I can have prescribed, but before you yell at me." Sherlock stemmed the tirade that almost fell from his lips as he began to shiver. "I was thinking more along the lines of B5, something to support you. And sleep. You my love need to sleep."

"Stay?"

"Always."

~~~)))ooo(((~~~~

Ashleigh Burridge walked down the High Street and huddled further down into her overcoat, mentally going over the list of chores her kids had to do before she got home. She doubted they would have done half of them, but still half was better than none, and working full time and being on your own was hard, harder still with little ones. She smiled, she didn't mind, really they were her life and she wiped a hand across her rain soaked face as she looked up the street for the bus home.

Her mobile chirped once letting her know there was a text, it was simple really, just a few words, but it was enough to make her miss her bus, enough for her to lose her lunch on the pavement. She looked at it again. All it said was "next". But that was enough, Carmine got a text that said first and he died, a week ago the brakes gave out in his truck.

Pippa got another one that said "Encore" and no one had seen her for days, people thought she was holed up with her pimp and meth but Ash knew better. She'd been scared for her life as she bolted from the coffee shop that afternoon, no one saw her go. And London didn't mourn the loss of one more call girl.

She turned on her aching feet and ran as fast as she could to the squat, chubby fingers flashed over her phone as she texted her kids. As she hit send another message came in, "Run Ash, run."

Ashleigh Burridge did just that...she ran.


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: Sorry for the long delays between posts. My life is hectic right now, husband is improving many thanks to all the prayers and well wishes, child is still 11 and hoping to reach 12 but at this stage the jury is out...:) and work well what can I say I love my job, mostly, when I'm medicated...Thank you all for staying with me on this ride...only a couple of more chapters to go and then on to Crucible...which will finish this arc. Much love to all, and yes I know syntax is all over the shop - but it's the best I can do right now...apologies ahead!...**_

He had learned or at least thought he'd learned that wisdom came with age, they of course were wrong Sherlock deduced. Wisdom had nothing to do with age, but with mental acuity. He watched John move around the bedroom, confident, at ease and so damned beautiful he thought for a moment his heart would weep at the sheer injustice of his thoughts.

Right now, he knew, without prevarication, that he was hip deep in trouble. John loved him, and would forgive him anything, but how to tell the man what he wanted, there in lay the problem. He sat back with a dramatic huff which earned him a raised eyebrow from his partner who frowned.

"Bored?" John asked innocently as he approached the bed.

"No, not really. Did you look at the autopsy results?" Sherlock picked at the nonexistent lint on the bed and narrowed his eyes.

"You know I did both missing vital organs."

"Black market?" Sherlock rested his chin on his hands and stared hard at the wall in front of him.

"Huge market for it, if you know where to look." John agreed and pulled his jeans on.

"As a surgeon?" there was a feral light to the grey eyes as he swivelled his head, like some long lost raptor and fixed his quarry with an unbreakable stare.

"No, no, no. No." John huffed. "Honestly Sherlock, do you really think me ..."

"Of course not, but surely someone would."

"Look best place would be Med school. Who do you know that has access to body parts?"

"Molly."

"Right Molly, who right about now may or may not want to talk to you,"

"Me? Molly won't want to talk to me? Because?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Jim was her lover Sherlock and despite him being a truly evil man, she still had feelings for him, and now he's dead."

"Because of me."

"He was the architect of his own destruction Sherlock; I wouldn't feel unnecessary guilt over that, Molly however may not see it that way."

"So you'll talk to her."

"Wrong. Geoff will talk to her."

"Amateur." Sherlock spat as he pulled a face.

"No, at least he has the right."

"And I don't?"

"No. So behave."

"Humpf..." Sherlock glared at the wall again.

"So now that we are over the gory details of the recent murders and you can present your case to an awestruck audience, what really is the matter?"

"Lost." Sherlock answered at once.

"What have you lost?"

"Nothing, perhaps me. I don't really know, but John, I'm an adult, and brilliant." At this Watson scoffed lightly. "And I don't seem to be able to get passed what a group of nutters did to me. Every day a little piece of me falls away and I don't like the soft part of me it reveals. It hurts, they hurt, and I don't like it."

"And your brilliance is no longer your armour?" John scooted up the bed and sat shoulder to shoulder with the detective.

"No. And that bothers me, more than it should."

"Stop, just please, stop." John soothed as he took the long fingers of one hand in his own. "And why shouldn't it bother you? Sherlock you're amazing, beautiful, talented and strange in one fell swoop. For all that you are magnificent, from your legendary sulks to your talents, beneath all of that you are still a child."

"That would make you..."

"Stop." John pinched him. "Most people learn all these life lessons as they go. Everybody fears not being liked at some point in time, not fitting in, and all the rest of the insecurities of the human race, but you have ignored them all your life. Right now you're catching up, so things will be brighter and sharper and hurt more and it will feel like the end of the universe and the beginning of life all in one day."

"Sometimes from hour to hour." Sherlock admitted.

"So because of that you're overloading that scary brain of yours and shoving your head so far up your arse you're almost ready to tell me you can't do a relationship because it freaks you out completely."

"It would appear John you have established some rather primitive deductive capacity of your own." Sherlock teased but behind the bright eyes laid the doubt. And Watson was quick to see it.

"You, um, haven't denied it either." John felt his heart thud against his ribcage and closed his eyes to settle him body.

"I wouldn't insult you like that, not over something so important." Sherlock's voice dropped to a pained whisper.

"So you do want out?" John asked quietly, Sherlock's hand convulsed around his and he drew a deep breath.

"No, I don't want out John. I'm not some bloody swooning kid who doesn't know what he's got himself in for; I'm just, a bit lost right now." Sherlock's voice sounded stronger than he felt at that moment and John smiled softly and leaned against him.

"Look, its normal Sherlock."

"I am hardly normal."

"Despite evidence to t he contrary you are, perfectly normal. Being in a dependent relationship is difficult at the best of times, to find yourself in one when you're not the dominant partner after your self confidence has been shattered is an explosive mix. You wouldn't be normal if you didn't have doubts. That in itself tells me you really are thinking about this for the long term."

"Who says I'm not that dominant partner?"

John looked directly into the grey-green eyes and smiled crookedly, Sherlock huffed and the matter was settled.

"You're not angry?"

"Did you think I would be?" John asked with trepidation.

"I'm not very good at conveying my feelings John."

"You're doing fine. It's all fine Sherlock."

"Last time I was in a relationship, I never knew whether to run or hide."

"He was abusive?"

Sherlock gave a non committal shrug. "Sometimes, other times I was too high to notice the bruises. And without sounding like a victim, I was at fault a lot of the time."

"There is never a time Sherlock, when it's ok to use violence as a tool in a relationship." John felt the bile rise in his throat and swallowed the bitterness back down. His free hand clenched in his lap as he drew deep breathes through his nose.

"Interesting." Sherlock breathed. "I thought you'd hate me, or at least be angry."

"Look I don't know, really I don't, but I can make an educated guess."

"Well that should be interesting." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and John felt the coiled anger he barely kept in check begin to spiral.

"Sometimes you can be bloody infuriating!" John snapped and got up off the bed, bare feet whispered across the cold floor as he paced. "And it's not always because you're bloody clueless. In fact, most of the time you do it, just to get up my bloody nose."

Sherlock curled in on himself and John swore under his breath.

"But that doesn't mean we cannot argue, nor does it mean I will resort to violence to get my point across Sherlock. You don't ever have to be worried about my leaving you, or my hitting you or forcing you, God knows I saw enough of that kind of violence in Afghanistan to last me a lifetime." He ran a shaky hand through his hair and looked over to the man who held his heart and his life in his hands.

"So you won't leave me if I ask for a bit of distance?"

"Depends on how far you need to go."

"Well not very far, I think we already agreed the separation anxiety is horrendous." Sherlock's lips quirked into a smile.

"Bastard." John launched himself at the detective and deft fingers delved into sides as he tickled the man breathless. Finally he sat astride Sherlock's belly and laughed as hands caressed.

"Seriously, I may need some time to adjust, just so you know."

"I know." He leant down and kissed the mobile mouth gently before rolling to the side, another kiss caught him this time Sherlock led and it was so soft and sensual John felt he might cry when they broke apart. Sherlock ghosted his long thumb down the side of the Doctor's face, stopping only at the jaw to cradle his face properly. He looked down upon the slightly craggy features with so much tenderness John gasped a moment before his lips were seized again.

~~~000~~~

"It's very comforting for me to know you love him so well." Amelie's soft voice cut across the conservatory as John entered alone.

"You've had reason to doubt your son's choices in the past then?" And there it was the Holmes's ability to drop into a conversation seamlessly or worse still carry on the private thought to a very public forum within a second. John had never really mastered his emotions on being so easily read, but then before Sherlock it had never been an issue. Now he was glad of his desensitisation and challenged the conversation head on.

"Oh often and loudly. His past dalliances during his drug fuelled days were enough for me to worry if I would have Sherlock beyond his 18th birthday." Amelie smiled as she sipped her Earl Grey and took up her needlepoint again.

"He still has trouble believing in me though." John sank gratefully into the padded seat and helped himself to a macaroon.

"Because of this woman? This Arabella?"

John shrugged, "Partly because of her, but I was wondering what you could tell me of Irene."

Amelie's reaction was telling, she put her cup down, visibly paled and turned a flinty glare on Watson.

"Surely you should ask Sherlock."

"Yes I could but I do believe in his current state of mind he may well consider the events his fault."

"It was a case."Mycroft had the unnerving ability of insinuating himself into a room and conversation with little to no regard to privacy.

"That much I know."

"A very prominent business man in Europe had a brief dalliance with the woman, and left shall we say certain incriminating evidence of his transgression." Mycroft continued.

"Yes I know that much, don't take me for a complete fool Mycroft." John clipped his words in the way he did when he was bored or annoyed and Mycroft was duly chastised.

"Sherlock was approached to find the evidence he had left and was told it was a letter and photo's what he found was a child, a beautiful little girl. Irene was, is a serpent of a woman and despite Sherlock's genius at the time was also very young."

"And very in love." Amelie's eyes filled with sadness.

"Sherlock took the child as his own and for a year they were happy and content. Until one morning he woke to find them both gone in the dead of night. He searched for days that turned to weeks."

"Couldn't you have helped?" John asked Mycroft directly.

"Indeed I did John. Ms Adler was never faithful and whilst she had a rare prize in my brother looked to more financial benefits in a marriage. She ransomed her child to her father and made off with over 3 million pound."

"Is that all?"

"No." Sherlock entered the room. "I'm glad to see there is some entertainment value in my past." He glared at his lover and family. "Mariel was not my child and it is senseless to be delusional. She resides in a boarding school is Switzerland, Irene has gone to the States and remarried for the 3rd?"

"Fourth." Mycroft corrected.

"Fourth time. I was angry and tired and felt useless as a man, as a parent and as a lover, I trusted when I never trust and she was gloriously brilliant and deceptive. I believed her, can you see the irony? I who believe no one truly believed her. After she left and I found the level of her deceit I turned to what I considered my only friend."

"Cocaine?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock smiled. "No those years were long gone, I still crave the drug, but I am no longer controlled by it, crime was my friend. I understand it, the crims today are vulgar but occasionally there is one who is brilliant."

"With the added benefit of not being personal." John smiled.

"So do you intend on visiting the oldies?" Sherlock changed the subject easily and his mother smiled.

"But of course Mon Cherie, what makes you think I wouldn't do the Hajj?"

"Hajj?" Watson looked confused.

"Forgive Mummy, it is a pilgrimage we are all pressed into the visit the old, infirmed and dead." Mycroft rebutted.

"Ah."

"Maiden Aunts John, a crazy uncle, and Daddy grave." Sherlock looked completely put upon and sat down in annoyance.

"Nevertheless, we have a duty. I expect you all to be ready tomorrow at 7."

"But Mummy it's Sunday." Sherlock pouted.

Amelie's grin was wicked as she continued with her needle point.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N thank you to everyone who is keeping this story alive. Mattsloved, Lady GreyTea, 13th Rhapsody - everyone, t hank you ...I anticipate 1 more chapter before Crucible. Hopefully I can get this story wrapped up in a few more days..._

_"Without hope, prejudice is born, without reason we are lost and without a future we shall condemn ourselves to the inconsequential mire of mortality – yet with the fates playing swiftly her hand we find ourselves to be the cards on the existence of the game which mortals are want to play and even death and sleep are forbidden till our penance is done."_

_~~ The Ruins of Time: the day of exile._

_By Ravenschild._

"And the sudden interest in Irene?" Sherlock asked almost absently, almost apart from the nerve that throbbed in his jaw, or the way his nose wrinkled in disdain. His diffidence was such that John knew he was in trouble.

"I'm not interested in Irene, I'm interested in you." John supplied lazily as he watched the moody form wander about the gardens, inspecting the marks on the trees in the late afternoon sun.

"Of course, I'm an idiot, why didn't I see that?" John winced he knew that tone, that acerbic beat that battered him thoroughly before he answered.

"Because you fail to believe." John essayed.

At this Sherlock turned around his eyes narrowed dangerously as he stalked towards John. To his great credit the soldier did not back down as so many before had done. "And just what am I supposed to believe in?"

John reached his hand out to tangle gently in the mess of dark curls as he smiled. "Me, Sherlock you are supposed to believe in me."

"What does Irene have to do with this?"

"You are a self proclaimed sociopath and yet you chose to love. That doesn't fit the psyche profile, and you know it."

"Do I? Yes I did love her, she was brilliant and beautiful but we never lived together John. For a year we saw each other during a period of mutual attraction, she got bored, she left. End of story."

"Curious." John smiled, not the least bit cowed.

"What?"

"I was referring to Mariel; you still keep in contact with your child."

"She is not my child."

"But you wanted her to be."

"She was never my child." Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Paternity does not make a parent Sherlock, you should know that."

"Should I?" Sherlock drawled in what John now realised was a clearly defensive tone.

"You love her, you still keep your eye on her, you still protect her in your own way and if she arrived tomorrow you would take her in, consequences be damned and you would love her, unconditionally."

"And your point?" Sherlock stuffed his hands deep into his coat.

"I believe Holmes I have just made it." John smiled and headed towards the waiting car.

Lestrade frowned and stamped his feet, it was going to be bloody cold very soon and he didn't want to be out in the bad weather.

"Well?" he demanded as Sherlock approached.

"Ah Lestrade, as courteous as ever. Your killer is a man, late to mid thirties, heavy set and not local, given the shoe size and the impressions I'd say most likely from South Africa, cigarettes are always a dead giveaway, and then of course there is this." He held up a spent bullet in his gloved hand. "And I thought Anderson was improving on forensics." He dropped it into the plastic evidence bag Lestrade opened with a scowl. "Custom made with a small GS just visible, reputable firm in South Africa usually made for game hunting. It's a precision made monometal bullet, company is in Port Elizabeth. They come into the UK via The Netherlands. You could try for a manifest but I doubt it will be of use to you." Sherlock smirked and Lestrade wiped a tired hand across his face.

"So it's a professional hit on a homeless man? Sherlock that doesn't make sense."

"I've seen these bullets before."John looked at the specimen in the bag. "It's a .224 single feed sniper rifle. Shot fairly close at a guess from a parked car, accuracy range is best over 500 metres and since it was a two shot kill..."

"Very good John." Sherlock couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice.

"Soldier remember?"

"I'd have Anderson look at the car park rather than the shrubbery he is currently abusing." Sherlock sniped.

"Just to change the subject for a moment." Lestrade pocketed the slug and looked at the two men before him. Sherlock tilted his head to one side and John as ever looked him straight in the eye. "You both know Ashleigh Burridge?"

Sherlock paled and John felt his throat constrict. "Is she, is she ok?"

"Safe and sound under lock and key for the moment, but you might like to talk to her."

"She's in custody?" john asked.

"Protective custody." Sherlock answered. "Colly isn't the first to die is he Lestrade?"

"Fifth in two weeks, first we can say is actual murder."

"And you are telling me this now?"

"Be reasonable Sherlock, it's only in the last week we've even drawn a connection, and it was Ash who gave us the link. She's safe so are her kids, and Angelo and Lucy all good."

"Someone or something is systematically destroying the Homeless network." Sherlock pinched his nose and swayed.

"OK?" John asked after a moment.

"Headache. Where?"

"Oh she's at Mabel's." Lestrade smiled.

"When is the baby due?" Sherlock asked out of left field.

"January 10th, I'm not even going to ask how you knew." Lestrade smiled despite being in the middle of a crime scene.

"Probably wise."

"Congratulations."John shook his hand. "First?"

"Third actually. Bit of a surprise really we thought we'd stop since Julie had such a problem last time."

John nodded sympathetically. "So do you want to fill me in on the banker and his wife?"

"Ah, simple really, you'll find Sebastian will be of little use to you now, however his survival might be compromised, might want to keep an eye on him. A few years back we ran into the Mendicant Society, they appear to have extended their field of interest into big game hunting. Only now the prize or should we say forfeit is important vital organs."

"What?" Lestrade felt the bile rose.

"I'll have the information to you later today, I doubt you'll be able to make an arrest, however these events are linked. Our South African big game hunter is very busy man."

"You sure?"

"Aren't I always?"

"Normally."

"Which I assume means Moriarty's amnesty is also officially off then?" John pushed his hands down into his coat and frowned as the sleek black Jag pulled smoothly up into the car park.

"Yes," Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet and smiled. "The game, John, is on!"

"You are really very very creepy." Donovan shook her head as she tugged on Lestrade's coat.

Once safely installed in the back seat John twisted in his seat as he received a text. He frowned, pinched his nose and pushed the phone back into his pocket.

"Trouble?" Sherlock knew what was wrong, could tell in every taught line of the soldiers body, but he was beginning to learn that to tell John everything he knew sometimes was a bit not good.

"Jaycee has stopped responding to the chemo, she's been moved to a private clinic."

"Ah." Sherlock scooted closer, bad enough to lose a colleague, but a patient, in this case a young mother of two to cancer. He felt for his lover, and wound himself around the smaller man offering comfort the only way he knew how.

John reached back and pulled Sherlock's arms around his waist and idly ran his fingers along the strong arms.

"Matter of hours." He said to the unasked question.

"You don't have to do the Hajj John, Mummy will understand."

"No, no, really this time now is important for her family. Adam will text me when to be there."

Sherlock sniffed his hair and kissed the back of his head gently. "I love you." He said softly and John melted into the embrace.

~~~00))((00~~~

Sherlock pouted as the car pulled up the long gravel drive into the Yew lined driveway. Parklands engulfed the car which lead into sweeping lawns, grass terraces and Mulberry trees and from the earth arose 'the house'. A breathing monument to Elizabethan architecture with its high gables and imposing facade. Balanced by the centuries old Cedar tree that partly obscured the front of the house. Mummy waited with the household retinue at the front of the house and like a Lord descending from up on high Sherlock straightened his spine, flicked his coat collar up and held his hand out for John who climbed out of the car.

"I'm glad you decided to come after all." Mummy kissed him on both cheeks and then turned to John who kissed her hand.

"It's hard to ignore a summons especially when Mycroft employs his not inconsiderable skill in kidnapping us." Sherlock sniffed haughtily.

"Behave." John muttered quietly as the grandeur of the property began to sink into his preoccupied brain.

"Welcome to the Park." Sherlock turned his attention back and despite the wide eyed stare of every staff member, took John's hand firmly in his own and lead the way inside.

They went past the great hall at centre of the house, with its pilasters that once, story had told belonged in Henry the VIII's hunting lodge, Sherlock told him as they walked past the large double hung doors, the drawing room at the west end of the house had a magnificent chimney piece carved from chalk and an elaborate ceiling with pendants. The 18th Century staircase displayed a series of paintings depicting the life of Christ. They continued through and not for the first time, listening to the dark timbre baroque of Sherlock's voice did John realise that this just wasn't a family with money, it was old money, and with connections that went far back and as high up as the throne itself.

Sherlock paused when he felt the doctor's hand tighten on his and smiled gently. The tiny one that curled his lip to one side as he scratched the side of his head with his free hand.

"Beautiful, ostentatious, breathtaking and obscene and beyond all of that." Sherlock whispered, "It belongs to a family who are raving nutters."

"Your family you mean?" John was grateful for the shift into friendly banter and felt the world swing back into order.

"I am the sane one."

"Now that's just disturbing."

Sherlock chuckled. "Ah here we are." The back of the house framed by a terraced and walled garden laid an expanse of manicured lawn, bedecked with wicker chairs and a lace covered table top. Surrounding the improbable scene were three elderly women, Mycroft who looked fraught, and an elderly man in hunting tweeds, shot gun unloaded, broken and held in the crook of his arm who stalked around the fernery like some demented deer hunter on speed.

Sherlock sighed again, and waved John forward. "Meet," he intoned with utmost dread, "the family."

The three women rose almost as one, and in a dizzying array of lace and fine silk swamped the tall detective with a sea of darlings and Môn cher's and beloved's, and Sherlock was carried away on a sea of Coco by Chanel.

John groaned as he saw the flock descend upon him, only to have his elbow pulled insistently away by Mycroft. In all his days, he had never been more relieved to see a member of the British Government.

"Pardon me, my dears, but Doctor Watson and I need to discuss a few matters of utmost urgency." He smiled and the ladies looked to each other, perfume combined with powder combined with something John couldn't quiet put his finger on, and was lead away onto the top terrace.

"He's going to go ballistic when he gets to you, you know that." John watched as Sherlock grimaced again, a porcelain cup pushed into his hand, which he disdainfully put down and glowered in Mycroft's general direction.

"Possibly, however, I visit the ladies on a semi regular basis, Mummy not so often but Midge was always the golden child." He smiled broadly.

"Can your family get any stranger?" John asked as he watched who he know new as Great Uncle Ezard pounce through the shrubbery in search of bunnies.

"At least for the most part harmless." Mycroft nodded. "Uncle Ezzy was a forensic pathologist."

"Complete breakdown?" John catalogued the movements of the man.

"Child crime, four babies all tiny and he was the leading Pathologist, he lost interest and the will after that. Sent the men to jail and announced his retirement the following week. Now he lives Uncle Ezzy world and seems perfectly at happy and at ease."

"And medicated."

"And medicated." Mycroft nodded. "Great Aunt Hortence the one currently trying to top up Sherlock's cup was a Professor of Literature before her retirement. Great Aunty Eudora travelled the world rode camels in Egypt and went down the Nile and Amazon before it was fashionable, great spirit the woman still has." Mycroft watched his brother intently. "And lastly the one talking to Mummy is Aunty Bell." And even John could not miss the affectionate way he spoke.

"I'm assuming Amelie's sister?"

"Yes, when Mummy and Sherlock went to Paris, Aunty Bell and I formed a lasting friendship, she has counselled me through several difficult times in my life, including Sherlock's addiction."

"They are all so, tiny." John marvelled at the fine long bones, the porcelain skin, the beautiful eyes and vibrant laughter.

"Like evil fairies." Mycroft answered.

"Sometimes you and your brother are eerily alike."

"Indeed," Sherlock scowled and looked to John to be rescued, "it seems you have been summoned, best to run along, only John I would suggest you pass on the tea."

Mycroft pulled his Blackberry out and answered a text as he watched John move into the throng.

"So we assume." Started Great Aunt Hortence.

"Yes we are told." Great Aunty Eduroa said in a gossamer voice.

"That you in fact belong to Sherlock." Chimed in Aunty Bell.

Sherlock groaned and put his head in his hands. Mummy smiled sweetly as John reached out for a cream cake. "I think it more appropriate to say that we belong with each other."

Aunty Bell grinned broadly. "But that would mean."

"Yes that would make you by default," Said Hortence.

"Ours." Eduroa shrieked as she poured a cup of tea into a Bone China cup and handed it across.

John groaned as he sipped and went beet red. "Sloe Gin?"

"The very best, Hortence makes it herself." Bell giggled, and it was then John realised that as well as being as mad as cats, they were also royally pissed.

Amelie leaned across to John and whispered softly in his ear, "Still immune?"

"Working on it."

"You realise of course ladies, that you are ruining my chances of ever being married." Sherlock said despondently.

"Married?" Amelie looked shocked as her hand tightened on John's arm.

"We've discussed it." John admitted.

"Really?" Hortence clapped her hands.

"Really." John pinched the bridge of his nose as he pulled his phone from his pocket.

"Adam?" Sherlock asked softly as he got up and put his arm around the Doctor.

"Um yes, sorry, really look I have to go, do you think Mycroft could organise a car?"

"Already done." Sherlock took his hand and stood up.

"My apologies ladies, it's been a great pleasure, I have a patient who I must attend to."

They all stood and amidst pats and kisses he was left to depart, Sherlock's arm firmly around his waist.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"Oh darling, thank you but no. You're next to useless when it comes to comforting people, it won't be pleasant and the family don't know you. But I do love you for asking." John pulled the dark head down to claim his lips before he stepped into the back of the car.

For long minutes Sherlock stood at the front of the house and watched the car move down the driveway and out of view.

"Have you really discussed marriage?" Mummy asked as she slipped her hand into his pocket.

"Yes. We talked about it."

"And?"

"And he said if I needed to be married he would go down on his knee and propose."

"Do you need it?"

"I don't know Mummy."

"I assume his patient is dying?"

Sherlock felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out.

_So good of you to let the doctor come out and play._

_M._

Sherlock swore, sent the text to Lestrade and to his brother who for the first time in his adult life, ran to the entrance of the house and in one swift move bundled Sherlock into the car with him.

"Hudson, level one security around the Alpha location, secondary and around my mother!" Mycroft ordered into the phone. "Where?"

"London Bridge Hospital." Sherlock sent a text and waited.


	11. Chapter 11

_Hi all - sorry this has been a long time coming. It's been near impossible to finish and I figured it was best to break the end into 2 parts so I could get something up. _

_Warning: Dark disturbing imagery..._

"Tell me you Lojack your cars." Sherlock's voice was impossibly soft as barely concealed terror chased across his drawn features.

"Of course." Mycroft bit out as he tried to make contact with John's driver again. He cursed and threw the Blackberry across the car to land with a thwump against the back of the seat.

~~~ooo~~~

Sebastian was inordinately pleased with himself, the man was easy prey for all the expectations one attributes to a soldier who had seen active service.

It had taken barely seconds as he was overwhelmed, close enough to the hospital for passerby's not to notice the two large men in scrubs who "helped" him around the back of the hospital and down into the morgue.

The green swing doors flapped as he flailed useless in their grasp as the drug slowed his movements and rendered him inarticulate.

Further down deserted corridors and away from the hospital proper to a small medical bay, purpose built in the basement, there a surgeon waited for his patient. The Doctor cried out in horror as he was forced down onto the mortician's slab and securely lashed to the cold metal. Hands and feet immobilised by thick straps as the Surgeon began to cut away at the beige cable knit sweater and below to the chain store checked shirt and T shirt until an expanse of flesh was revealed, toned and trim and covered in a pale dusting of blonde hair.

The doctor screamed silently again and this time the Surgeon eyed him disdainfully. His dark hair and the manic gleam in the dark cadaverous eyes spoke volumes and despite facing down insurgents in Afghanistan the doctor understood fear, and knew death when he saw it. He screamed again for help, to be found, but with each passing moment he grew fainter until his throat closed in panic. Lips that couldn't form words cried out as the Surgeon patted him gently on the head and picked up a scalpel.

"Shopping list?" The doctor realised the surgeon was Eastern European when he spoke to another man he hadn't noticed. Foolish really it had been too easy to grab him from the hospital parking lot but his shoulder had throbbed and he had other things on his mind.

"Mmmm." Sebastian Moran was a big bear of a man, with a lion's mane of hair and in his younger day's riotous curls. Now nearing forty he was a great deal more self-possessed than even he would have thought possible. Time had been a cruel mistress and he had been tempered in blood and battle as he looked down at the pathetic man strapped on the table. "Heart and lungs to Moscow, liver to Germany and the kidneys to Glasgow, transport is waiting."

The Surgeon clicked his tongue and smiled.

They say the first cut is the deepest, for a moment stunned silence filled the room before the scream was rent from a raw throat and echoed in the room. The Surgeon stopped for a moment and leaned over the incision and as the steam rose from the living flesh he closed his eyes and smiled as the warmth flowed over him.

Another scream gurgled from the prone man as the blade dove deep into soft flesh and hit the breastbone. The doctors ruined clothes hung in sodden clumps as blood and ichor dripped onto the tiled floor and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. White heat and pain overwhelmed him as he vomited from the pain and his body jerked like a broken marionette against the restraints.

His last sane thought as he watched his kidneys be delicately placed into a small blue cool box, was of his love, and as his soul flew free of his ruined body he sent one last thought to the one person who mattered and would be left behind.

Sebastian Moran smiled, as the Million pound payload was dispatched, the perfectly forged official documents went with them and the Surgeon wiped his hands on his scrubs and pulled off his surgical mask.

"Good pay day yes?" the surgeon asked.

Sebastian nodded.

"Do you want me to dispose of the body?" He stripped off the soiled gloves and threw them into a bin.

"No, not this time Doctor, this one is a gift for an old friend of the Professors."

"Ah. Do you want me to make him presentable then?" he waved at the ruined flesh in the charnel room.

"No I'll take him as is. Thank you for your work today."

"And my payment?"

Colonel Moran pulled out a small hand gun and shot him point blank between the eyes.

"Account settled." He said as he tipped a liquid over the doctors face and watched it fizzle and pop, once the features were fully distorted he slipped a wallet out of his jacket, unwrapped it from the plastic that it was held in and pushed it down into the left hand back pocket. Satisfied he wrapped the body into a blanket and kicked the lifeless form of the Surgeon to one side. When done he lifted the doctor's remains easily over his shoulder, out into the chilly air and into the back of a stolen van.

***)))(((***

Night shifted restlessly away from the city as the streets became dank and dark, foreboding in their lack of light and dangerous, but never as dangerous as the man who whistled through perfect teeth as he took a meandering path from the hospital.

Colonel Moran had always prided himself on his choice of set direction. The back alley was just far enough away not to be noticed immediately, the lack of CCTV camera's on the route he had taken added to what he liked to consider as the mystery.

Sebastian chuckled to himself as he pulled the lifeless form from the back of the van and hoisted it over his shoulder. He kicked the piled rubbish bags behind the skip and dropped his burden that made the sound of wet leather as it hit the plastic.

Next he pulled out a box cutter and un-wrapped his gift. The face was serene in death without the trauma of war or fear to ever touch the mind again. He decided to display the body just a fraction more so that whoever found it would be certain that the doctor was indeed a corpse not a homeless stray that had found a moments comfort on London's hard streets.

A few more touches to the surroundings, and finally he was done.

"Perfect." He bent over the body and snipped a lock of hair from the back of the short cropped head and folded it reverently into a linen handkerchief. "Thank you." He patted the doctor's still shoulder. "I always like to keep a trophy."

And he was gone, within minutes the suit he had worn was burnt as he changed into jeans and sneakers. The van was dumped, so arrogant was he that he didn't bother to wipe the van clean. His fingerprints would be found but with no Interpol record he could well have been a hobbit.

Long legs took him up several flights of stairs and onto a roof top, there he settled to watch the spectacle. He longed to see the look on Sally Donovan's face, but it was Holmes he was truly after, the shattered look on that preternaturally serene face, the arrogance would be gone and he would see the heart of the man, moments before it withered and died in his chest.

The Professor would be proud.

~~~)))(((~~~

Sally Donovan rolled her shoulders and felt the muscle's pop as she reread the testimony of the battered wife down in the cells. None of it made sense, in fact most of her days no longer made sense. Inside her an aching void had opened when she recognised the abuse levelled at her from her former lover, the case she was investigating hit just a little too close to home.

Enough was enough though and she'd seen too many people fall prey to love. She vowed it would never happen to her. Tired. She must have been tired as the words fell in and out of focus and she forced her body up to the coffee machine and poured herself a healthy mug.

DI Lestrade looked as grey as he felt and smiled when he caught sight of his Detective. She held up the coffee mug and asked, he nodded and they fell into silent communication as she deposited the mug on his desk and leaned back in one of the cane chairs.

"Tough day Boss?"

"On occasion. Mind you if it's not quiet it's paperwork and I'm not sure which is worse."

"Paperwork, definitely paperwork." Sally agreed readily and watched as DI Dimmock hurried across the room towards them.

"Bloody hell." Lestrade took a gulp of the coffee as Dimmock stopped suddenly and fidgeted. The hairs on the back of Lestrade's neck stood on end. Whatever it was wasn't good, in fact Dimmock had come up the hard way through the ranks and to see him so nervous made even Donovan feel the ants crawl over her skin as she looked at him hesitate.

"Bad?" Lestrade finally asked unable to bare the tension any longer.

"Worse. Its well, shit. Body was found near the hospital, local boys say he's been opened from chest to groin and had organs removed. Face has been partially obliterated by what looks like acid. Body is still warm, so he's only been there a little while."

Lestrade ran a tired hand over his face; London was fast becoming a dark and disturbing place.

"Any ID on the body?"

Dimmock began to sway as Donovan pulled him to sit down in the chair next to her. A grim smile played on his ashen lips and his eyes far too old for his young face, wept silently.

"Dimmock?" Lestrade asked the distraught man again.

"Yeah." He looked up and then back down at his joined hands and away, unable to believe the sourness in his own words, unwilling to acknowledge the awful truth. "Dr John Watson."

It was at that point Sally Donovan threw up.

~~~)))(((~~~

The back of the Jaguar was not a place a sane man would want to be. Sherlock radiated fear in the same way the sun radiates a solar flare. Far too bright to be withstood, Mycroft had never once seen his brother stunned to the point of silence. Too wound up to be even articulate the words that bubbled in his chest, his left hand for the first time since he was four, trapped between the solid hands of his brother as Mycroft drew a deep steadying breath.

The glow from the screen of the Blackberry was far too bright, the simple summons far too brutal and he couldn't tear his eyes away.

_**Come Now, meet you at the top end of Tooley Street, urgent. Lestrade.**_

He knew the area, and knew that his John was there and this text, the wording the vagueness was enough as Sherlock forgot to breathe.

"Stop jumping to conclusions Midge." Mycroft chided gently.

Sherlock pushed back into the seat, flush against his brother's side, his eyes wide in distress and his heart in his throat. A single tear tracked down his face and Mycroft hardened his resolve. No matter what or who if John Watson was hurt or injured then Mycroft would fight heaven, hell and the law of any land to kill the bastard personally.

He was after all the head of the family.

~~~)))(((~~~

Highgate Cemetery was a Grade 1 listed park, with a rich and round history dating over 150 years. Amelie always felt so close to her husband and yet so far away as she walked through the iron gates, always taking her time, always apologetic to the love she had for so long revered and held close to her heart.

Her steps were softened underfoot by the deep grass, along through to the Egyptian bridge, passed the two eagles and on to St Michaels in the western cemetery. Here the graves stood proud and silent, nestled in the landscape as if a part of history itself. She closed her eyes and remembered the day when she swaddled her beloved husband in his last clothes and commended his body to the sodden ground.

On that day too it had rained, as if nature mourned with her the passing of an old friend.

She stopped again, the peonies large and pale in her hands, the silk of her shawl drawn up over her hair as she traced a hand lovingly across the simple headstone.

"I'm sorry to have been away so long." She whispered quietly, kissed her fingers and pressed them to the cold stone. The grave was tidy and adorned simply with a single red rose as she picked it up and sniffed. Uncertain as to which of her sons had bothered to do the Hajj as they liked to call it. She laid the peonies with grace as a shadow fell across the sun and made her shudder.

It took her a few moments to realise it was that of a man, a large man with white hair and deep jade eyes that sparked with intelligence and mirth. His body barely confined by a rich Irish linen suit and a long heavy woollen pea coat. On his sleeve a chalk mark and in his hand an umbrella against the uncertain weather.

"Mrs Holmes." His voice was soft and reverent, with a slight intonation that was European.

"Have we met?"

"No my dear lady, but our sons have. Most unfortunate." He tipped the dark Fedora and extended a hand. "I am Professor Moriarty."

She looked down and deigned not to shake his hand, a feeling of unease crept over her as she looked around for her discrete security cordon.

"Ah, I understand. However, you have my word Madam I am not here to cause you harm or obstruct you in any way. I wish to offer my apologies."

Intrigued she stepped closer; this behemoth of a man spoke softly with a kindness she could not help but notice.

"For what precisely? For your son attempting to kill Sherlock or the insidious game he played, or better still for your daughter's torture of him?"

"For both. They made this war personal. And it isn't, Sherlock is a great man Mrs Holmes and I for one have no desire to harm him or his brother."

"Or John?"

"Or John." He agreed readily. "Perhaps we could wander? I too visit the memory of my wife and soon my son will sleep here with her."

So much pain behind the eyes, his body lumbered as the wet grass whipped at his legs and she felt an empathy that she tried valiantly to ignore.

He held out his arm for her, and after bidding her husband a last farewell took the offer. "It is not right we should outlive our babies is it?"

"No. So far I have been spared."

"Your family will come to no harm Mrs Holmes, my son and daughter was a great disappointment and have paid dearly. I am no saint and no doubt Sherlock and I will come across each other again; however I should be very grateful if you tell him, that it is not now nor had it ever been personal. Even now, Colonel Moran has overstepped the boundaries of common decency and he is my responsibility."

"Responsibility?" she asked softly.

"Let us say no man shall mourn him." They walked together in silence and as her security caught up to her by the lee of the garden, he tipped his hat, kissed her hand and smiled. His old face oddly surreal in the surroundings. "I take my leave of you my dear dear lady."

And with that he was gone and she was keenly aware of his absence. Alone again in a churchyard, with just her security, the rain, weathered stones and a golden memory of her husband to keep her cold company.

~~~)))(((~~~

Sebastian Moran pulled out a bag of crisps and munched as he watched the police mill around the site, unable to do more than get in their own pathetic way.

Sally Donovan's appearance had been priceless, the so called strong trained police Sergeant took one look at his tableau and promptly lost her lunch or was it dinner? Now she was sat at the back of an ambulance wrapped in an orange blanket with a cup of tea pushed into her trembling hand.

He knew what that meant, knew the shaking of her limbs announced her pending emotional turmoil and he counted the seconds until she reached for her cell phone, and he would be solicitous and she would be grateful. She would never again leave him, well not alive or sane at least, that was one thing he would see too. For a moment he could even taste the dusky sweat from her skin and the soft musk as she would allow him to do anything he wanted, and he would want a lot. No woman left him, ever.

The atmosphere changed, the climax to the show was about to begin. And he edged forward against the bricks to watch it unravel, his hand reached for his own member as he watched the long and lithe form of Holmes emerge from the car, and close behind him the brother. This was it this was the moment he had waited for. In the next few minutes he would burn the heart from the man and his torment would begin in earnest.

~~~~))))((((~~~~

"Well?" Sherlock steeled himself, every ounce of his body chanted to run, to not look back to find the nearest syringe and drive it deep into his arm, to allow the fire to burn him and with it all the emotions that roiled around inside his head. He closed his eyes and focused, held fast to his iron will and constitution.

"We think its John." Lestrade put his hand on Sherlock's arm and lead him forward.

"Think?"

"Same clothes, same body, hair and his ID in the back pocket." Lestrade felt ill.

"Dead?" Sherlock asked his voice cold and flat, his body rigid.

"Yes."

"Show me."

"No, you don't want to see him like this."

And finally he snapped, he rose himself to his full and impressive height and tamped down his considerable rage.

"So why call me? If it is John," he faltered, "then all I can do is make the bastards suffer." The words were cold and even Lestrade cowered slightly under them.

"Alright. It's not pretty." He handed Sherlock a pair of latex gloves and it was only as he begin to put them on did he realise he was still holding his brothers hand.

Mycroft smiled bleakly and let him go, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the alley way. His security detail approached and he went to meet them.

"Driver is back at HQ sir." Riley said quickly his Irish lilt soft and deceiving.

"Indeed? And his mobile."

"Perfect working order, from what we can tell the signal was hijacked en route, we've gone over the car and there is nothing untoward there, so the boffins have concluded that the car was put into radio silence via cross telemetry."

"That's a little too sophisticated for domestic crime." Mycroft's keen eyes surveyed the tops of the buildings as he took in the scene.

"Rather too sophisticated, we have three departments working on it now sir, including an attempt to locate the buyer of the equipment."

"I see and Dr Watson?"

"Was last seen in the oncology critical care unit, mobile phones are prohibited so we have sent Andrea to check."

"Wise move."

"Sir, the police believe the body to have been here for approximately four hours."

"And?"

"Dr Watson was walked to the ward less than three hours ago." Riley held out his PDA and showed Mycroft.

"I will not give my brother false hope!" Mycroft spat and Riley took a step back. "Check it, I want the exact movements of the good doctor and I want them now."

He spun on a handmade leather heel and tapped his umbrella on the ground, a flash of light like that from a gun site caught his attention and he called Riley to him quietly.

"Let us not upset the local constabulary. But I do believe we have an audience, at least one, third floor second window along, flash from a scope."

"On it now sir. How do you want us to proceed?"

"With maximum efficiency of course."

Riley smiled he liked this man, in fact he adored his job with this man, there was no grey area's to deal with it was quick, it was decisive and it was often final. He liked that, too many salutes in the service now, too much yes sir, no sir, to get the job done.

~~~~***)))(((***~~~~

Sherlock chanted Shakespeare in his head, over and over the sonnets flew as he looked at the ground, and the body thrown haphazardly yet peculiarly staged in the black bins bags. He smelt the acid and underneath the disinfectant one associates with doctors on a ward. He sniffed again, a good metre from the body and frowned.

He took in the blonde head, the ruined body, and the shape of the hands and finally he breathed. His body trembled inside and he fought it down, "And upon this charge cry God for Harry, England and St George." The words flew around his brain, over and over again. Vaguely he heard a voice, questioning him, his right to be here at this place, in this alley that reeked of death, "Anderson." He muttered and for once the derisive question of what he was doing there was not cruel or mocking, underneath a genuine hint of warmth of concern and that surprised him. In the distance he heard Donovan and the odd hiccup of a woman who had lost a friend. "Interesting." He said again. And then there was a warm pressure on his arm, a gentle tug and he sniffed again.

Today John had nicked some of his aftershave, Hugo Boss being the flavour of the month and Sherlock couldn't detect the base notes, nothing, the body smelt sterile. And he frowned. "Pink peppercorns." He said incongruously.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade stood in front of him, concerned that despite the man's prostrations it was in fact way too much for his brilliant mind.

Lestrade had obscured his vision of the crime scene and he became aware of the small knot of people who milled around. He drew a long breath, sniffed again and flipped the collar up of his coat and tilted his head to one side.

"He's good, but that Inspector Lestrade is not my John."

"Sherlock? I understand denial, but..."

"No, it's not John, look." He smiled fully now.

Lestrade shook his head and followed. Sherlock hadn't even touched the body. "Hands are the wrong shape; no tan line around the wrist from his watch, John has one. Fingers on the right hand calloused slightly from using or holding a scalpel or various medical instruments, right sleeve is slightly worn, cuff frayed from constant rubbing. Left sleeve is pristine. Ergo this man is right handed, John is not whilst he shoots with either hand he writes and eats with his left hand dominant."

Lestrade breathed as the rapid fire conclusions were drawn from an innate intimate knowledge of John Watson and managed a small smile.

"The aftershave is missing."

"John wears Pink Peppercorns?" Lestrade gaped uncertain of the Consulting Detectives mental stability.

"Idiot. No, he was wearing Hugo Boss this morning; it has citrus notes and an undertone of pink peppercorns. He was also wearing a suit, and I know he went directly to the oncology ward without going home to change, whilst these clothes are a reasonable facsimile of the real thing they are also from the wrong shop."

"Thank Christ." Lestrade wiped a tired hand across his face and patted Sherlock on the arm.

"Indeed. You will also find the absence of scar tissue from the shoulder wound John sustained in Afghanistan, along with a small mole on the very top of his left hip. I can continue, if you need me to."

Lestrade smiled fully now. "I believe you."

"This however once was a doctor of some sorts, probably on the ward. Grabbed on the way into work, strong man, so..." Sherlock knelt down by the body and pushed up the left sleeve, "ah, here. Injection point very small. A paralytic of some kind would have made him inarticulate as well. Two men judging by the pattern of bruising under each arm, the incision were made by a surgeon and the blood pattern indicates that he was probably conscious, the jagged cut marks around the organs means he struggled. He was held down, no, sorry, wrong, always something, was strapped down." He examined the feet, slipped off a shoe and rolled down the sock. "See bruising, should match with the ones on his wrists."

"Anderson says he is missing heart, lungs, kidneys and liver."

"A shopping list, all organs harvested and used for organ transplant. Probably not in England, most likely black market in Europe."

"Which merrily leads us back to Moriarty?" Mycroft intoned.

"It's not John." Sherlock almost bounced at his brother, and Lestrade grinned when the elder Holmes patted him on the shoulder and nodded.

"Yes Midge I know. We are being watched, sniper in the window, my security detail are already on it."

"Where?" Sherlock asked as he looked up. "Not sniper, not here, made to look like John, why?" he looked across to the next building on the edge he could just make out a hand and he scowled. "Up there. This was set up."

"An attempt to take you out of the game." Mycroft said and Lestrade blanched at the callousness of the act, the sheer horror of the poor man's last minutes embedded in his already overburdened brain.

"Where is John?" Sherlock asked his brother directly.

"Working on it, Anthea has gone to find him on the ward, apparently he is still there."

"Find him Mycroft, please." Sherlock's voice was softer now and Mycroft gaped. His brother never, ever said please, and he nodded oddly protective of the brilliant if manic young man his brother had become. "You will also need to check the MOD on the movement of arms destined for the Middle East today."

Mycroft set to work on his Blackberry.

~~~~***)))(((***~~~~~

Sebastian grinned manically, oh but this was far better than he thought. The arrogant bastard looking all frail and wan, as he clung to his brother's hand like a child. The twitch across the broad shoulders that fell as he snapped on gloves and the horror, oh yes the horror that loss of hope, it was priceless.

He had angled the body on the bags perfectly, from his vantage point on the roof; he got to look directly at those angular features as they twisted in confusion. He couldn't stop the thrill that coursed through his body or the heat the coiled in his belly.

Delighted he watched as Sally Donovan reached into her pocket and withdrew her phone. Anderson snarled and Holmes was so lost in the moment that he for once paid no attention. He could see the sweat bead on the top lip, the desire to run and loose himself as his addiction chaffed to be unleashed.

His hand travelled south, his fingers squeezed his shaft through the jeans, and finally as Holmes came closer to the body he reached into his clothes and began to pump in earnest.

It would not take a man like Holmes long to realise that the corpse was not his beloved doctor, but still for a split second the heart ripped and popped within his breast and Moran felt the thrill of excitement bud in his own body.

He threw his head back, eyes transfixed by his ghastly tableau and just as he came, the red dot landed on his forehead and with a startled "Ahhh." He came and died in the same moment as the high powered bullet tore through his brain.

~~~)))(((~~~

Before Lestrade could bellow orders, Sherlock was off and running through an alley to the left, up through a side door he took the stairs two at a time and only slightly winded landed at the top as he waited impatiently for Scotland Yard's finest to join him. He scowled imperiously at them, a derisive comment on the edge of his razor sharp tongue, and thought the better of it.

He opened the blue metal door gently but it creaked in the still air, and he threw caution to the wind, ran out onto the roof, stopped for a moment and continued on. Lestrade swore under his breath and Dimmock drew his gun.

"Is he always like this?" one of the uniforms gasped.

"No today he's being considerate." Sally Donovan had joined the fray. They fanned out, guns drawn in a text book move and stalked about the flat roof, using the odd protruding building equipment to stop and take stock. Minutes crawled by before they found Sherlock squatting on his haunches by what looked like a body.

Holmes stood slowly just as his phone chimed; absently he looked down at the brief message.

**Moran made the game personal, that's just not done. **

**Until next we meet. M**

"Bloody hell." Anderson groaned when he took in the sight, the man was propped against the side of the roof, one hand covered in semen and a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

"Talk about autoeroticism." Lestrade took the phone from Sherlock.

But it was Donovan, Sherlock was fixated on. Her face pinched as she gasped for breath, her hand over her mouth as she turned and he glared. Donovan had seen many corpses, she was many things that he didn't appreciate or understand, but easily shocked was not in her makeup. He calculated carefully, this man, her look, Moran. He knew that name from the Mendicants, but from somewhere else, oh yes, stupid, stupid. Really really stupid.

"Sally." He stalked forward.

"I..." tears streamed from her pretty dark eyes.

"Sebastian Moran?"

She nodded.

"Your ex?"

She nodded again Anderson grabbed her just as she crumpled to the floor.

"Take her back down stairs and keep an eye on her." Lestrade barked before he turned back to the second crime scene.

Satisfied Sherlock turned his considerable attention to the dead man; long fingers danced across the fabric of the dark shirt and immediately catalogued the evidence before him.

"If I am correct." Sherlock began as his long thumbs worked on his phone, Lestrade made a disparaging noise behind.

"What? You usually are, and don't be so bloody smug."

"Sebastian Moran, South African native, born J'burg in 1966 it was during a time when hundreds of thousands of African's were relocated out of the city into remote homelands, governed by strict enforcement and law passes regarding their movement. In 1985 he enlisted and was later trained at Mons, saw active duty where he was discharged honourably after being injured. Made a name for himself as a gamehunter in Africa, fell off the radar officially after that."

"And you know all of this from memory?" Lestrade coughed.

Sherlock grinned and held up the phone, "Wikipedia."

The cop shook his head.

"Nevertheless, the official radar doesn't keep track of criminal activity. He is or rather was a thug with a penchant for cruelty which judging from the bruises on Sally indicates it flowed into all aspects of his life."

"Killing someone who looks like John and then setting the scene to make you think he was dead, what's that about?"

"Motivation is relevant to each individual and not necessarily something readily understood. He was a cruel man, one that Moriarty tired off and had killed. You will find a number of cases you will be able close once you've entered his fingerprints into the Interpol database."

Lestrade saw the pained expression, the ache that lurked so close to the surface as the pale eyes searched for the one bright absent soul. "Mycroft will find him."

Behind the mania and the scent of blood that filled his nostrils, the thrill of the chase, the unbending of a complex puzzle was a man, who for all his intimidating brilliance, Lestrade saw one who was as confused as he'd ever seen him and it was the heart of the man that leaked into his eyes.

For long moments Holmes poked and prodded the corpse, looked at the entry wound from the high powered sniper rifle, but sooner rather than later he lost interest and walked to the far corner of the roof.

Surprisingly Anderson was the first one to him and Lestrade watched with keen and intelligent eyes as the scene played out before him, ready to step in and step up as John would want to protect their asset.

Sherlock blinked rapidly the uncommon reaction to stress and he frowned almost comically as he finally made out the words that tumbled from Anderson. Tall, mediocre and boringly average, Anderson now held his long freezing fingers in his own hands and chaffed at them to get them warm.

"Do you have gloves?" Anderson asked as he pushed his face forward to force the other man to acknowledge.

Sherlock simply nodded once, and Anderson with all the patience only a parent could muster patted him down and slipped them on the long hands. He found Anderson's presence oddly comforting as he mumbled a thank you, and the forensic officer just shook his head.

"Sit." He pushed Sherlock down and pulled his own overcoat off and slung it around the hunched shoulders.

"Anderson?" Lestrade asked.

"He's shocky sir, cup of sweet tea will help."

"Thank you." Lestrade smiled thinly, his keen eyes watched the crowd for the missing doctor and his gut ached every second he was not in view. He looked down into strange eyes that shone with despair, an open and vulnerable expression and one Lestrade had never hoped to see on the man, and now one he hoped never to see again. "Sherlock, you need to breathe."

Like a child, he did as he was told and Lestrade worried as he texted Mycroft.

"Grey." The first word that fell from tormented lips in what seemed an eternity.

"What's grey Sherlock?" Lestrade crouched down next to the recumbent man and ran a large hand across his shoulders.

"My mind." Sherlock shrugged and scrubbed at his face with both hands. "Tell me Lestrade, is what it's like to feel?"

Lestrade pulled him closer and kept his touch slow to reassure the man. "Yeah, yeah it is. But look Sherlock, this upset's you, hell it upsets me but you must not let it swamp you."

Sherlock nodded.

"No I mean it, breathe, and don't let it swamp you."

"I don't like this feeling Lestrade. It's not me, it's not right."

"Yes it is." Sherlock snapped his head up to stare straight into the eyes of his missing doctor. Watson dropped to his heels and reached forward. "We talked about it remember? Feeling is ok; the problem is you are feeling too much." Sherlock leaned into the sure embrace as Lestrade stood.

"Bout time you made a bloody appearance." Lestrade grumbled.

"Good to see you too." John began a slow rock of the man in his arms, the tousled head barely visible as Sherlock pressed his ear to John's chest and calmed when he heard to strong beat.

"What do you mean he feels too much?" Lestrade turned back towards them.

"We spend a lifetime learning what feels good, what feels right, how to cope with emotions. Sherlock has ignored those most of his life."

"You mean like Aspergers ?"

"Very good Lestrade." Sherlock answered from his safe haven. "Do you want the checklist? Do I have very few friends? Yes. Am I socially awkward? Yes. Do I make inappropriate comments or do socially inappropriate thing?" One eye looked up to shoot him a baleful glare.

"Alright, alright. Geez Sherlock."

"Whilst I may have some of the traits I don't have them all, and I have if anything a limited condition. I do know that my arse is freezing and I want to go home." He pushed himself up and reached down for John to take his hand. "And as for inappropriate comments socially – right now I want my partner naked, with me buried so deep he can think of nothing but the sound of my name on his lips."

John blushed and after a second Lestrade let out a full laugh.

"It's a crime scene Lestrade, you cannot giggle at a crime scene, it's inappropriate. People with think there is something wrong with you." Sherlock handed the coat back to Anderson and waited for John to catch up.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Thank you to all my lovely readers - life has been difficult with little time to write or rest of late. Things are progressing nicely and the pressure is starting to release. Here be the final installment of Morass: Interlude. I hope it meets with your approval. **_

_**Love to you all, it has been a wonderful ride, and I hope to see you again soon. Ravenschild**_

"There are times I wonder about your sanity." John shook his head but did not let go of his consulting detective.

"Really John? Only sometimes? I must be improving." Sherlock grinned, but behind the eyes there was that same haunted doubt that had shrouded him when he was liberated from the asylum.

After being embarrassed in front of Lestrade and manhandled into the back of a waiting black Jag, Mycroft patted him on the shoulder and walked away, umbrella clicking on the pavement in time with his steps. Only then when the engine roared to life did Sherlock relax his grip.

"Aspergers?" John ventured.

"Well of course, I knew I was odd and everyone and I do mean everyone John thought there was something wrong with me, so I researched them all. Sociopath, Psychopath, Aspergers, Adolescent antisocial behaviour, ADHD, manic, PTED, megalomaniacal, OCD, OCPD, whether or not I was delusional, gay, straight, bi, unisexual, frigid, schizophrenic, homicidal well towards my elder brother at the time, you can imagine. The list is quiet exhaustive. And now I'm a consulting detective and I feel like a total and complete fraud." John had heard the change in pitch and reached out to gather the now trembling man in his arms.

"It's ok, Sherlock we are safe. You're safe."

"I can see it all John, you have no idea what it's like to be in my head, it's like a game of chess, always thinking, never quiet, it doesn't get quiet in here." He tugged his dark curls in frustration. "And they look at me, waiting for me to snap, to get bored with being on the side of Angels, to put the body on the slab, to become the monster they are so afraid of, and because they don't accept me they push harder and harder, and they need me all the time and I cant do it anymore John, I really," Sherlock hiccupped, "I really can't. Your right to doubt my sanity, I do, I constantly do. And your bloody blog that keeps them coming, all those pretty little puzzles, all twisted and bent and God help me I adore them, even the dull boring ones, I adore them all. Because they stop me from thinking about how others hurt me." The voice drifted and became small, and the tremble developed into a rock as he wound long arms about his spare frame and tried valiantly to hold his body and mind together within his own arms.

Sadly John knew from bitter experience, that right now, he needed to let the storm blow itself out, to draw the poison out of the wound of the psyche before he could allow the mind to heal. And when it did, when that great mind finally found it's heart, John knew the world would finally see the good man that Lestrade had hoped for, for so long.

"You use the puzzles to stop from feeling?" John asked softly as he ran his fingers through the dark hair.

"Yes John isn't that what I just said?" Sherlock answered slowly as if speaking to a dullard and John tugged on the hair.

"Be nice, just confirming something."

"What am I a bloody experiment all of a sudden?" Sherlock huffed indignantly.

"Not that you would ever use me as an experiment." The sarcasm was ill concealed but it drew a tiny answering smile from the Detective.

"Honestly John it was only the once, in all fairness."

"You had me thinking I was about to be devoured by some bloody rabid dogs locked in a secret military base in the middle of nowhere."

"And for this am I ever to be forgiven?" Sherlock sounded tired. "This feeling lark is rather over rated; I told you once that I don't have outward physical responses to things. It's usually better if people believe what they will, I can't change that."

"No, no you can't, but still it doesn't make it any less uncomfortable does it?"

"No. Why are we going to Baker Street?" Sherlock looked out the windows.

"Because my love, you wanted to go home remember?"

"Of course I remember John, I'm not an idiot."

"Mmmm well you also said something about vocal and wild sex."

Sherlock turned to look at the man who held his heart and if truth be told his sanity together and smiled. "Naked and alone?"

"Well not too alone." John smiled.

Sherlock interlaced his hand with the strong and capable ones of his doctor and smiled. "Forgiven?"

"Always, it's in the subtext Sherlock."

"The action speaks louder than words."

"And sometimes you're not as observant as you think." John teased.

"I also said that I wanted to be buried so deep in you all you could think of was my name."

John smiled a faint touch of colour rising in his cheeks.

"Bring it on."

~~~~~~***)))(((***~~~~~~~~

"Mummy why didn't you tell me?" Mycroft seethed.

"Because now you know what he looks like, and I was not in danger AND might I add you were occupied with Sherlock."

"Not to the detriment of your life. You have no idea how very dangerous these people are."

"Now that is insulting." Amelie turned and threw a dish towel at her erudite son. "I was not in danger and your security personnel were inept and too bloody far away to be effective. Dip your tongue in vitriol and vent your ire on them, not on me." She paused and wiped the clean bench top again.

Duly chastised Mycroft wrapped his arms around her and breathed in the scent of her shampoo. "We cannot lose you Mummy, it would break us."

"Oh my darling, one day you must, but it was not today and I was not incapable as you well know. How is my son-in-law?"

"John is safe, well he's with Midge so he's safeish." Mycroft conceded and poured a coffee from the French press.

"Good, he is very good for our boy."

"Yes, yes he is. Mind you for the moment let us not share this with Midge. There is a fragility about it that bothers me, and John will need to strengthen his resolve and his mind."

"And knowing I met the Professor will cause him turmoil. Yes darling I do understand. Did you get the footage?"

"Yes and you are right of course, we can now continue to build the dossier on him. It will go a long way to understanding the man. John and Midge will be at Baker Street tonight and I have an errand to attend to, however, would you care to accompany me to dinner?"

"How very gallant. Of course where?"

"I know this lovely little Italian diner not too far from Baker Street."

"And I will have the chance to thank Angelo myself. Ideal."

"Two hours Mummy." He bent down and kissed the porcelain cheek.

"I love you too my darling." She cupped his face and kissed him again.

~~~~~***)))(((***~~~~~

Jim Moriarty's dark eyes glittered with amusement as he watched the man enter his cell. Mycroft was older and colder than Sherlock who burned with a bright white hot flame, for all his disdain of emotion he was quicksilver and easy to read. Mycroft was less available and Jim cocked his head to one side.

Gone now the exclusive designer suits in favour of a grimy white tee shirt and Government Issue track pants. The clothes or rather lack of them was meant to diminish him and he chuckled again, futile, but under the circumstances one had to allow Big Brother his idiosyncrasies.

"Ah the British Government has arrived." The soft Irish lilt, the unthreatening posture one shoulder dropped lower and the slight stoop were all staging to the untrained eye. Mycroft raised a brow at him and sat down.

Jim laughed and it was rich and musical and just mercurial enough to be totally insane. "Oh well, I guess since you caught me I owe you the courtesy of not playing that particular game."

"Wise." Mycroft said.

"Well welcome to my humble abode and I do mean humble, couldn't you liven the place up a bit? Some colour or a potted plant or so?"

Mycroft kept his silence and calm, as he watched Moriarty prowl the confines of the small concrete cell. "We met your father today."

Jim stopped and glared, a myriad of features raced across the expressive face before they contorted and he screamed. "I have no bloody father!"

"Or sister."

"What does that mean?"

"It means your sister attempted to break Sherlock by having him sectioned."

"Clever girl." Jim nodded the mood once again passive.

"Not really, she, unlike you, really is dead."

"You're lying."

"I have no reason to. Seems like Daddy is tying up loose ends, Sebastian Moran met with an accident this morning as well."

"What type of accident?" Jim slouched against the wall.

"The kind created by a high powered rifle." Mycroft touched his forehead. "Right here."

"And you bring me the glad tidings from the bottom of your ice cold heart?" Jim asked.

"On the contrary."

"What the hell do you want?"

"We will begin with your list of contacts within the British Government, and will progress from there."

"And if I don't?"

"Ah I see, this is where I am meant to threaten you. Mundane of course. Since death holds no real fear, and as we speak assets are being frozen and obtained, shall we say, then failure to comply will result in this lovely room becoming your permanent abode, humble as you call it."

"Not much of a threat Mycroft."

"How silly of me, it's not meant to be a threat; it is simply a promise, of unending bleak boredom. No contact with the outside world, no contact with another living soul. You will be fed, watered and administered to, but this will be your last human contact."

Mycroft's smile was sinister as he exited the room and Moriarty threw his head back and laughed.

"You haven't told him yet have you?" He raced to the door and pounded on it, face pressed to the tiny windowpane. "Sherlock doesn't know I'm still alive."

Mycroft left the compound; the sound of Jim Moriarty's laughter echoed down the hall and into his brain and with it a tiny curl of pain and doubt.

~~~***)))(((***~~~

_How is he? MH_

John blinked as the light of his phone lit up the room. Rumpled bedclothes strewn across the room along with clothing and clung to his side like a giant bear cub Sherlock snuffled softly.

_Fine. JW_

John had gotten used to texting with one hand, it was a habit developed from Sherlock's unending love affair with text messaging.

_Good, Mummy and I going to Angelo's for dinner, shall we deliver take out? MH_

Sherlock grunted and spoke into John's side. "Tell him I want Lasagne and Tiramisu."

"Hungry?"

"Starving."

"We could join them." John offered and Sherlock stretched all lean muscles under milk white skin rippled.

"Mmmm." Sherlock answered lazily as he kissed the puckered skin of the wounded shoulder.

"Or we can stay here, and get dressed for when they turn up." John smiled into the kiss that was pressed to his lips.

_Will leave food with Mrs Hudson, I assume lasagne and tiramisu for two. MH_

"Sorted." Sherlock muttered as John began his own tender assault much to the consulting detectives delight.

~~~***))((***~~~

Epilogue:

Airports, John mused where home to so many mixed emotions, that if a place were at all to be haunted it would be here, or perhaps a railway station. But most likely here.

All manner of people wandered around airport, children and the elderly. The business man going on holiday, the wife leaving the husband, the happy reunion, the farewell. His least personal favourite and today was no different.

Sherlock was sombre, immaculately dressed and held in his hand a single pale pink peony, to his left his mother, tiny against her tall sons and dressed in Prada, soft perfume washed over them looking nothing like her true age, a porcelain beauty in a sea of grey and grim faced men. Mycroft was on her other side, both men, leaders of their profession, one of his country and the other invaluable to the country clung to her hands like small lost children in a shopping mall and John bit back a lopsided grin.

"I shall be in residence in Provence during the first two weeks in December and will either come home for Christmas or you will come to me. Make sure Sherlock comes with you this year Mycroft, you know how I worry." Amelie smiled as Mycroft kissed her.

"And John, I am so very very proud of my son for finding you." The doctor looked embarrassed and Sherlock grew if possible taller.

"Maman." Sherlock whispered to his mother and handed her the flower. "je t'aime"

"Oh my darling's and I both of you, be good to each other yes, I will be home in a few weeks. And please make sure to arrange for Lucy to come and stay with me."

"Lucy?" Sherlock stared.

"Yes Lucy, what a beautiful and delightful angel. And your police man friend."

"Yes Mummy we will ask." Mycroft interrupted as she departed through the first class gate.

"I will text you when I get back. Bon bye mes bébés."

And with that she was gone, a single tear slid down Sherlock's face and he stood and waited until the plane was in the sky before he heaved a sigh, and took John by the hand. Mycroft too waited but he watched his little brother, some of the brittleness had smoothed and his eyes no longer looked lost.

Yes, it was a good day, and it was beyond time for his brother to know them first hand.

"Work?" Sherlock asked.

"Lunch." Mycroft stated.

"Diet?" Sherlock teased.

"Later." Mycroft rose to the bait with a grin.

John shook his head. "Children, play nice."

Both Holmes's, men to be admired and feared pouted at the Army Doctor who sighed dramatically and walked away, assured that the soft footed steps behind him, would not deviate. Well, at least, not this time.

Finis.


End file.
